


long live the empress

by rievu



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, wrote this out of pure curiosity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-03-10 22:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13510905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: "With only the haunting song of whales to accompany her, Jessamine drifts away from the Void in a black haze of pain. Her soul settles back down into reality, and Empress Jessamine snaps her eyes open and feels the shard of a dream branded on her hand."// if empress jessamine kaldwin survived and received the mark of the outsider instead





	1. the shard of a dream on her hand

_Long live the Empress!_  
That is what the people once chanted when she was only twelve years old. And from that day forward, Jessamine swore to watch over her people like her father did. To protect them. To ensure that their faith in her was not misplaced.  
It was a strained series of years from that point on. She watches as her empire begins to sway and crumble from the strains of politics and minor conflicts that breaks out between the isles. She watches as her people die from the rat plague that spreads without mercy.

Jessamine is horrified when her spymaster suggests to quarantine and deport her own people. She shuts _that_ idea down quickly and after the meeting, she retreats to her own quarters and sinks into a chair as Corvo watches on, always there, always watchful, and always gentle. She’s grateful for him, really. He becomes an anchor for her both before and after Emily comes. They are always close to her heart, and she pulls her resolve tighter around her when she heads out for the day’s duties. She loves them dearly, but she also loves her people.

Her reign grows longer and longer, and the burden on her shoulders grows greater and greater. The rat plague continues to spread from the depths of the slums within her cities, and Jessamine tries. She really does. She directs money towards research and tasks her spymaster to the job.

Jessamine Kaldwin watches over her empire.

But everything falls apart as they always do.

Jessamine watches as her only child is snatched away. Jessamine watches as her love, her heart, her _protector_ , gets stabbed by assassins whose blades are meant for her. Jessamine watches as the entire world seems to freeze right in front of her, and with growing shock and horror, she watches as a mark glimmers on the hand of one of the assassins. Then, she tumbles backward over the railing of the gazebo and falls for what seems like an eternity.  
Her body cracks against the cold, hard pavement of her city. It’s a sensation that hits her as hard as the impact, and her mind goes absolutely numb and black from the pain. She doesn’t see anything or hear anything else other than the low, mournful song of a whale in the far distant seas. _Funny_ , she thinks. They were supposed to be nearly dead after the whalers’ work.  
  
When Jessamine wakes up, she finds herself not in her room or in the gazebo. Instead, she stands in a pool of forever-eddying waves of shadow that lap up at her ankles. This is not Dunwall, she realizes with a startling clarity. She looks down at her hands and finds them unbroken and whole. When she tries to take a step forward, the shadows seem to fracture in front of her to reveal a tall, lanky man wearing dark clothing. He turns around and looks at her with otter-black eyes. Jessamine sucks in her breath and sets the iron in her shoulders again; this is no mere man.  
  
“Interesting,” the man drawls as he steps closer to her. “It was supposed to go in an entirely different manner. Corvo always did have the penchant for impossible things.”  
Jessamine’s breath catches in her throat as the memories start surging back. It was not a simple nightmare. Corvo and Emily really were... Gone. Her expression wavers for only a moment before years of practice and the weight of the crown force her expression right back to the terrifyingly placid mask of the Empress. “Corvo,” she repeats. Her heart twinges as she recalls his face and his laugh and the timbre of his voice. She also remembers the way his blood looked so scarlet against the silver of a blade. “What business do you have with me, Outsider?”  
  
After all, there is no other thing that he could possibly be.

“Everything and nothing, Your Imperial Highness,” the Outsider replies cryptically. He raises an eyebrow and responds, “Perhaps you should be asking yourself that question.”  
Jessamine draws herself up to her full height, and although the Outsider is lanky and whip-thin and long-limbed, she still has the slightest advantage of height. “Do not mock me, Outsider,” she warns. “I will ask you again. What business do you have with me and why am I here?”  
  
The Outsider spreads his hands and says, “Look, your bones are broken and your heart is sluggish. Your head is trapped in dreams while your soul is stuck in here. Your reign is rife with corruption not only from the rat plague but from your own advisors as well.” A knife-like smile splits his mouth in half as he says, “It is not my fault if the whims of men manipulate my gifts in ways that you dislike, Your Imperial Highness. Perhaps you should ask your Royal Spymaster about what he has done and who he has employed in recent times.”  
  
A snarl sharpens Jessamine’s face as she says, “Your gifts, you say?” She advances towards the Outsider as the memory of her daughter’s screams flickers across her mind. “Your gifts killed my Royal Protector and took my daughter,” she accuses.  
“Corvo was never just a guard to you, was he?” the Outsider muses. “He was the one I originally planned on, but circumstances change. I suppose I’ll extend the same offer to you then.”  
“What. Offer,” Jessamine hisses, fury suffusing her once-placid face.  
“A gift,” he replies. “I can offer your health and powers beyond what you ever could have believed.”  
  
“And for what price?” Jessamine demands in return. The stories always tell about the Outsider who prowls in the shadows and offers you the world and more. But there is always a price. It was even a lesson in basic economics. Nothing was ever free.  
  
“None,” the Outsider says nonchalantly. “I only wish entertainment. Make of it what you will. I play no favorites.” He pauses and taps his chin slightly as he comments, “But do keep in mind: you are currently comatose, your heart is in danger of giving out, your bones are completely shattered, and you have a royal court waiting to seize the power in your eminent absence.” The same smug smile curls around his lips as he says with finality, “The offer stands only once more, Empress. Make your choice.”  
  
Jessamine grits her teeth and keeps her shoulders set straight. Her mind races to analyze the situation and offer up benefits compared to the costs. She shuts her eyes and exhales deeply, trying to summon that same placid serenity that befitted an Empress.  
  
“Fine,” she says in a voice edged with too much vitriol and danger. “So be it, Outsider.”  
Empress Jessamine Kaldwin of the Empire of the Isles extends her hand out to the ghost-pale, oil-black Outsider of the Void. With a single bark of laughter, the Outsider takes her hand in his and shakes it. Jessamine cries out with searing pain as her hand burns under his touch, and the sound of whales lowing echoes in the shards of the Void around them both.  
  
With only the haunting song of whales to accompany her, Jessamine drifts away from the Void in a black haze of pain. Her soul settles back down into reality, and Empress Jessamine snaps her eyes open and feels the shard of a dream branded on her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok but hear me out: jessamine holding corvo's heart, jessamine with the mask, facing hiram burrows personally, saving her city, reuniting with her daughter, and resuming her place on the throne until emily turns of age and becoming her daughter's royal protector instead
> 
> not sure if i'll ever rlly continue this tho ;;


	2. departing the place of beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said that i didn't really plan on continuing it, but thedarkpugrises left a nice comment + i figured that i might as well try? here goes nothing ahaha

Jessamine wakes up to see the gilded ceiling of her royal quarters and feels the faint sensation of the Mark on her hand. She clenches her hands experimentally and sighs with relief to feel them all whole and unbroken. The rest of her body feels the same. Her hair is loose and spills all over the satin of her pillow, and it moves like black ink when she turns her head.   
  
Good. No one else is in the room.   
  
Jessamine clambers out of her bed and checks her clothes; they are still the same clothes as the ones she wore at the gazebo. She clicks her tongue disapprovingly and moves to settle the bedcovers just as they were. But then, she’s left with the question of what exactly to do with herself now. Her jaw clenches as she thinks of her daughter and of Corvo. The mark flickers in response, and she sighs heavily as grief pours over her like the high tides.   
  
Considering that she was nearly dead, she expects her royal physician to come into the room anytime soon. Sokolov was always an... Interesting fellow. Jessamine has to admit that she was fascinated by his scientific acumen and his capacity to create new advancements for her people. But at this point Jessamine can’t tell whether not he is worth trusting. she cannot trust anyone anymore.   
  
Jessamine sighs heavily once more then starts moving towards the window. It’s too high for her to safely jump, but she doesn’t have any other options. The chances of her sneaking through her entire estate without being noticed is zero, and she does not wish to make her miraculous recovery known. In fact, if she was ever found out, she deeply suspects that one of her advisors would use the mark against her as a form of high treason or crime. After all, consorting with the Outsider was deemed a cardinal sin. She opens the window slightly and scans her surroundings; no one would ever think to look up. However, the surrounding buildings are much too far for her to make any sort of attempt on them.   
The mark on her hand insistently tugs at her, and Jessamine glances down at it. It gleams gold when she turns her hand experimentally in the dimming sunlight. Somehow, her gut instinct tells her to move forward. And besides, she tries to rationalize it by calling it something that the Outsider would be able to save her from. You can’t get entertainment if your primary entertainer is dead.   
  
Jessamine sucks in a deep and heaving breath as she takes the leap forward. The minute her foot leaves the thin railing of her window, she blinks forward. She lands heavily, hands shaking and legs trembling from the brunt of the impact. Her loose hair streams around her, and the slight breeze blows carelessly through it. Then, she starts laughing with careless, giddy glee as she realizes that she made it to the other side.   
  
Then, reality comes crashing in, and the empress sobers quickly. She crouches closer to the edge of the building and looks down at her people beneath. No one has noticed, but a small movement in her peripheral vision makes her flatten her body closer to the ceiling of the building. If she stays still enough, no one should see her.   
Someone has come into her room: Doctor Sokolov and her spymaster, Hiram Burrows. They are looking frantically around the room before pointing to the open window. Jessamine’s lips curl into a snarl as she remembers the gazebo, but she remains quiet. Eventually, Burrows and Sokolov both leave the room, shaking their heads. Burrows in particular is shaking his fist at the open window.   
  
Jessamine mentally curses herself for ever being so naïve and trusting. She once believed that he was doing good, that he would never betray her. She was wrong, and Corvo and Emily paid the price.   
  
She blinks across buildings just like she did in that first leap forward and experiments with her newfound powers. She finds that she can see clearly in the dark and see things that should be humanly impossible to see. After a brief experiment gone wrong, Jessamine learns that she can summon and control rats to a certain degree. She retches slightly after letting the rats go; it feels like such a disgusting and sickening power to have after what her country has endured. Perhaps it was an irony that the Outsider inflicted on her on purpose. Her mouth twists when she thinks about it, and she settles for slipping silently into the shadows. She leaves farther and farther from the city during the night and wonders how she will continue.   
  
Jessamine Kaldwin is an empress, not an assassin or a soldier. She neither knows how to kill or how to sneak around as much as she knows how to make diplomatic agreements or how to properly drink tea.

Corvo taught her basic things: how to hold a sword, how to run quickly and use the shadows to hide, and strangely, how to dance. The corners of her lips quirk up as she remembers how he used to hold her hands and twirl her around in a Serkonan dance. Jessamine shuts her eyes tightly and tries not to think of his blood spattered on a gazebo column. Still, the fact remains that she only knows how to do the most basic things outside her job, and killing is not one of them.

She descends further into the slums of her city, and she’s horrified to see the level of poverty and disease that ravages through streets and houses. Jessamine presses her lips thinly together and stops at one house. The doors and windows are tightly boarded up, but a line of laundry still hangs outside. The clothes look clean enough, and Jessamine knows that she cannot travel in clothes like these for much longer. She peers through the cracks of the boards on the window and instantly recoils when she catches a glimpse of what waits inside.

A weeper, blood dripping down their cheeks and flowing from their eyes, thuds against the window, trying to claw at her through the glass and wood. Jessamine backs away, eyes wide, and tries to regain her composure. She steals over to the laundry line and plucks the clothes from the line. The original owner is much too far gone to even mind. Guilt still tugs at her mind though.

She burns her royal attire that night and watches glumly at the dying embers when everything has been destroyed. The rough fabric of her new clothing feels irritable against her skin, but she wraps her jacket more tightly around her. The only thing that she keeps is a single bandage that was wrapped around her ribcage. It’s bloodstained, no doubt from the gazebo, but it works to keep her hair tied back and out of her face. Jessamine catches a glimpse of her reflection and sees only a poor woman instead of an empress. She straightens her spine and sets her shoulders in the proper stance and lifts her chin. There she goes. An empress once more.

But she lets her stance go slack as she thinks about her options for the future. She cannot afford to be caught now. Who knows what intrigues Hiram will come up with next? For now, she must wait and figure out what plan of action to take up next.


	3. a dream of whalesong and void-shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm these chapters / sections aren't really as long as i usually write them, but i think it works?

“Hello, Empress Jessamine,” the same oily voice says in the depths of the darkness. The Void solidifies into something more solid under Jessamine’s feet, and a few choice curse words flicker past in her mind when she hears the voice. The Outsider chuckles, “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid. More people have called me by filthier names than that. There is even an entire religion devoted to hating me."

Jessamine glances around her hurriedly, trying to peer through the void-shadows. Her head starts to spin slightly when she strains her eyes to try and see more, and the Outsider appears before her, hand on his chin and eyes examining her. He tuts slightly, "Don't look too deep; the Void will look back." Jessamine tears her eyes away from the spiraling shadows and notices how the Outsider's eyes linger the longest on her Mark. Her own eyes narrow and she says acidly, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit, Outsider?”

The Void thrums with the lowing of whales, and it is almost but not exactly how she remembers it from her first time here. Logically, she knows that her physical body should be safe in the spot that she chose to sleep in for the night, but a part of her is still wary and watchful. She doesn't know how far the Void can stretch into reality, and she doesn’t intend to find out.

“What else?” the Outsider queries as he begins to pace ever so slowly around her. Jessamine swivels to keep her eyes on him as he continues to speak, “You did not stay in your palace, Empress. Intriguing. Why?”

She lifts her chin slightly, and as she straightens her shoulders once more, the Void transitions her clothes from rough-woven fabric to the smooth silks and velvets of her former attire. “You said that my advisors were corrupt,” she says coldly. “I did not intend to stay for them to only kill me again.” She holds up her Marked hand as she continues, “Besides, you have conveniently left me with a mark of heresy. I would not put it past my Royal Spymaster as well as the High Overseer to have me killed for such a crime.”

The Outsider barks out a sharp burst of laughter before he says, “Wise Empress indeed. I fully expected you to remain there and start your work from there. What do you intend to do now, Empress Jessamine?”

Jessamine bares her teeth slightly and says sharply, “What would you have me do? I have no talent in the art of killing, and I suspect that my entire cadre of advisors and leaders are corrupt.” She gestures and tugs at the Void slightly to make small phantom rats skitter across the shadow as she snorts derisively, “But I suppose I can now summon _rats_ thanks to your _gift_. Thank you, truly, for allowing me to summon more of what is killing and destroying my people.”

The Outsider chuckles once more, and at this point, Jessamine Kaldwin is beyond irritable. In fact, she thinks that if this goes much further, she could probably punch him in the jaw with a handful of her phantom rats.

“Corvo did have a talent for killing, and now, it appears as though you’ve been jaded by your experiences. I wonder what you will do next,” he muses. Jessamine presses her lips together until they make only a thin line. _Not now,_ she thinks. _You would dishonor Corvo’s memory by only remembering his death and not the days and years before._

“I always expected him, Corvo Attano of Serkonos,” the Outsider says. “He had the talent to be truly great. I was excited to watch and wait on the cusp of surprise and intrigue with _his_ actions. Never have I read _your_ fate beyond your inevitable death, Empress. So far, you pale compared to Corvo’s story, but it is entertainment nonetheless.” He spreads his hands outward, and the Void answers his call. It slightly bends and reforms around him to show the slight outlines of a… Pub.

Jessamine wrinkles her nose slightly as she asks, “Should I dance for you then? Use my empire’s wealth to buy up a series of entertainers and musicians and the like? Entertainment is such a vague term.” She knows what will entertain the nobles at her court and what will entertain the common folk. She does not know what will entertain a god.

He waves his hand vaguely at her and says, “Your life has taken a turn, has it not? Like it or not, you _will_ play a pivotal role in the days to come. There are forces in the world and beyond the world, and it appears as though you have already taken your time to experiment with them. In the days that follow, your trials will be great, Jessamine.” A slight smirk curls along the edges of his lips as he continues, “Seek the ancient runes bearing my mark, in the lonely places of your world and at shrines raised in my name. They will amplify and increase your ability to manipulate these forces and powers. Magic, if you will. To help you find these, I give you this: the Heart of a living thing, molded by my own hands. You will be able to hear many secrets, and it will serve as a guide. I will give you a single hint: find this location with the Heart.”

An actual, beating heart appears in front of Jessamine, and with fascination and disgust, she reaches out to grab in and examines the _thing_ with trepidation. It appears half-mechanical and half-human, and when she holds it a touch harder, it begins to whisper into her mind. Jessamine almost drops the heart out of surprise; she swears that the timbre of the voice is almost exactly like that of Corvo’s. When she glances up with an accusing glare already on her face, the Outsider only smiles cryptically and disappears.

When she wakes up, she wakes up with the Heart securely in her pocket and the memory of his smile. Jessamine gets up shakily and stretches out the kinks in her back; she’s deeply unaccustomed to this kind of sleeping on bare stone and open air. When she glances around for any danger, she catches the gleam of rats’ eyes in the darkness. However, the Heart in her pocket thrums slightly and the Mark on her hand gleams, so the rats stay quiet and careful within the shadows.

She doesn’t waste any more time in this area though; she has a pub to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooo and so the heart finally comes in! poor corvo, he never really gets a break.


	4. city streets of grime and plague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i.... am fudging Many Details abt canon stuff and other small things.... my apologies ahaha

_ She was a wench! _

Jessamine stops by the wall and reads over the graffitied words again that cover over another set of words that reads “Long live the Empress!”.  _ A wench _ , she thinks with a touch of melancholy and bitterness. Was this really what her people thought of her? She knows that  _ she _ tried her best for the benefit of her people, but what was it even worth if her people did not think the same?

She shakes her head and moves on. At this point, she estimates that she’s gone through more than her fair share of pubs. The Heart whispers in a too-familiar tone, and although she tries to ignore it, she can’t help but twitch her fingers and squeeze the Heart slightly.

_ "Miserable work. But still preferable to prison,” _ the Heart says softly when she passes by a city watch guard. The guard himself doesn’t even bother to look at her. His eyes slide right over her as she steps softly, ducking her head down to hide most of her features in a curtain of ash-black hair. _ "When not at his post, he searches for his sister, missing a week now,” _ the Heart finishes. Jessamine rounds the corner and sighs with relief. She has not been caught. Not yet.

She glances over her shoulder and wishes that she could do at least something about the missing sister. Her own heart aches to think about him searching constantly through the dark and sadly inhospitable slum streets of Dunwall for his sister. She has neither the time or effort to waste though.

Jessamine estimates that at least two weeks have passed since her supposed death. Time doesn’t seem to flow quite right with her anymore. Hiram moves quickly, establishing himself as the Lord Regent and connecting himself to the wealth and power of the throne with the help of his followers.  _ What a fool I was _ , she thinks. But no matter. She has gone through many pubs, but she hasn’t found exactly the right one yet. 

The Heart has led her to one or two shrines, and she’s found several runes and bone charms in the most oblique and obscure places she could ever had imagined. Grime and plague seem to veritably coat the streets of the slums that she wanders. She never would have imagined this degree of poverty and suffering on her gilded throne in the days before. 

She’s also gotten blood on her hands.

A few men in the night thought it would be a good idea to force themselves on her. Jessamine had to twist out of the way, elbow a few guts, and knee someone before her fingers tightened on the handle of a knife on another man’s belt. She left the alley blood-stained and battered and with decidedly less innocence before. She hid the bodies, of course, but it was then that she had to wonder whether or not this was what Corvo had to do. 

Dirty his hands so that she wouldn’t have to.

The Heart in her pocket whispers, _ “Always there for you.”  _ Jessamine lifts her hands to examine them, and although they are scrubbed clean, she imagines that she can see the traces of blood on them. It’s silly, so she moves on, but the thought doesn’t leave. The knife remains as a heavy weight on her belt.

When she goes to sleep that night, she wakes up in the Void again. This seems to be a reoccurring experience. But instead of searching for the Outsider, Jessamine allows her feet to take her where they will. She passes under the large, looming shadows of the whales that drift overhead, and she walks over Corvo’s dead body with a note pinned on it. She’s seen this before; she simply moves on. The shards of void-shadow are still there, but now, as she pads through the Void, she finds a distinct sound of turning gears. 

Jessamine wakes up to hear the Heart whisper gently, “ _ Each and every night the black-eyed Outsider visits upon Piero's dreams." _

Piero. She does not recognize the name right away. But it is another clue.

Jessamine then finds herself under the roof of a blind, old woman whose family members have all been victims to the rat plague. Jessamine herself deeply suspects that the woman is either a carrier of the plague or will be on her way to death soon, but she still remains in the house. The old woman tsks and frets over her as if Jessamine was simply another one of her grandchildren. A small part of Jessamine refuses to leave this old woman for dead, and the house does serve as a decent place for her to return to after roaming the city streets in search of a pub and a Piero. Two more weeks pass in this way, and Jessamine only leaves when the grandmother awakes with blood dripping down her eyes. Jessamine gives her the death of mercy with her knife. She still returns to the house every now and then though in order to rest and take inventory of her supplies. She burns the blankets and wipes down everything though; she refuses to die of something like the plague after coming this far.

One of her sons was a city watch guard, and so, Jessamine finds some more suitable and durable clothing in his chest as well as a few weapons. She even finds a small, expensive bottle of elixir tucked away at the very bottom. Her lip curls when she sees it, and the Heart whispers,  _ “He bought himself an expensive elixir. Didn’t try to drink it until it was too late.” _

“And why did he not give it to his own mother?” Jessamine murmurs back. She does this often: have conversations with the Heart. She doesn’t know if it can hear her or reply back coherently, but it gives her a moderate degree of comfort to do it. “A shame,” she says as she stands up. “He could have saved at least someone, but they all died from his own greed.”

It’s a lesson that seems to be mirrored in too many people.

After a month’s worth of searching and looting supplies and following the guidance of the Heart, Jessamine has amassed a decent amount of bone charms. She’s also figured out how to incapacitate people and stab people in the right places for a quicker death. Jessamine hates it, but she does it anyways. It’s not a job born of talent by any means. In fact, it’s a shoddy job at best. She deeply suspects that the Mark itself has allowed her to be much more agile and efficient than she normally would be.

But most importantly, she discovers the pub.

The Hounds Pits Pub is a rather large pub, in her opinion, and she finds it in the Old Port district. The building itself looks old and has four stories, and she almost passes it by because of its unnatural size. Jessamine loosens her hair from its bandage-ribbon and smoothes out her rough trousers before stepping inside.  
The pub itself is not anything special. If she remembers right, this pub was supposed to be closed after the plague hit the district. But evidently, the pub is still somewhat open. The woman who opens the door for her examines her keenly for any coughs or spots of blood before letting her in reluctantly.

Jessamine keeps her head down and adopts a coarser accent when she orders something simple from their menu. She chuckles slightly when she sees the small addendum on the menu: “Jellied Eels! Fresh, not tinned!” As if that was an improvement on the already-distasteful food. Across the room, she can see three men huddled together, heads bent firmly toward each other and faces drawn with solemn expressions. Jessamine ducks her head down and passes it off as a nod of thanks when her food and drink arrive. She drops a few coins on the table for her food and returns to eavesdropping.

The Outsider would not lead her to this pub for no reason. Well, unless if it were for the joy of watching her struggle in vain. If so, the Outsider was a sadistic god. 

But as Jessamine watches, she starts to notice something peculiar. She swears that she recognizes some of the faces. Was that Lord Pendleton? And… Jessamine thinks that she has seen that face on some Navy roster before. She catches a few words though: something about the Lord Regent and about Parliament. She reaches into her pocket and grazes her fingertips across the Heart. 

_ “They whisper about the dead Empress and how to reclaim her throne for her daughter,”  _ the Heart says to her. _ “They dislike the Lord Regent.” _

That alone is enough for Jessamine. She swallows down the last of her (vile) jellied eels before standing up and striding over to the small group. She taps one of them on the shoulder: the one from the Navy.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she says as she adopts her usual genteel accent again. “It appears as though both you and I have shared interests.”


	5. learning how to bite back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, at this point, i'm tearing canon apart and just playing around with the shreds of it :")

Piero Joplin is a small man, and his beady eyes flick around the room. Admiral Havelock’s gaze is pinned on Jessamine’s face. The Overseer — Teague Martin, she thinks his name is — shifts in his seat uncomfortably, and Lord Pendleton keeps his back set perfectly straight in the way that nobles tend to do in front of her. Jessamine thinks that it is more from the terror of her throne and her position rather than her own character or personality. The others — Callista, Cecelia, Samuel, Lydia, and Wallace — are all out of the room, handling their own business.   
  
“So,” Jessamine starts off lightly. “It appears we have a Lord Regent on our hands.”   
Admiral Havelock leans in forward, placing his elbows on his knees for support. “Your Imperial Highness,” he urges. “You could reclaim the throne right now without a single claim against you! Why do you not make a move?”   
Jessamine sighs slightly. The man left the Navy after her supposed death and even founded a Loyalist organization in order to reinstate the Kaldwin name on the throne. She can understand why he thinks that is the more pressing form of action to take. “Admiral,” she patiently replies with that same bland expression she wore so often in court. “I cannot take the throne when there are a nest of snakes waiting for me instead of the loyal and honest advisors I once believed they were.”   
  
Martin stirs slightly and pipes up, “That’s true, your Imperial Highness. The High Overseer is solidly with the Lord Regent— I mean, Royal Spymaster.” His eyes examine Jessamine’s face, and somehow, she is reminded of the way her former spymaster used to go through papers so carefully. The glint and look in the Overseer’s eyes mimic his: searching and searching for benefits unknown to anyone else but himself.   
“And Hiram is financially supported by his mistress, Lady Boyle. It will be difficult to oust him from his current position in regards to wealth and political power,” Pendleton muses. 

“Even with the power of the crown, Empress Jessamine will have a difficult time re-establishing herself,” Martin finishes.

Piero nods along. Jessamine doesn’t know if he nods simply to fit with the group or if he genuinely does think so. She won’t allow herself to reach into her pocket to ask the Heart in front of the others.   
  
“Yes,” Jessamine agrees. It seems so clear to her now. She looks down and exhales out slowly. Her hair, no longer elegantly coiffed, sinks down to shield her expression, and she breaks her composure only once to suck in a shuddering breath. When she lifts her head again, she is every picture of the Empress that she was. “We must consider our options carefully especially since they have Emily,” she finishes. With that, she stands up; the meeting, in her opinion, is now adjourned. The other men stand up as well, and they shuffle out of the room and presumably out of the pub as well. Only Admiral Havelock stays behind. He stands, tall and straight-backed, and waits for her. Jessamine raises an eyebrow and asks, “Did you require anything further, Admiral?”   
  
“Are you sure, my Empress?” he bursts out in a sudden rush of words. “You do not have to hide in the shadows like, like this! You can reclaim your throne right away and get rid of Burrows and the rest in one sweep!”    
Jessamine sighs, “And what would the gain me, Admiral Havelock? They still have their power and their money, and I, in turn, appear like a maddened Empress who does such actions with little thought and little care.” She gestures to the empty seats and says, “We must find a more subtle approach to the situation.”   
  
The admiral reluctantly nods and turns on his heel to leave, but it’s only then that a thought suddenly blossoms in Jessamine’s head. “Admiral Havelock!” she calls out.    
  
The admiral stiffens before slowly swiveling around to face her again. “Yes, your Imperial Highness?” he asks hesitantly.   
Jessamine raises her gaze to his own and stares him down as she says slowly, “Teach me how to fight.”   
“Excuse me?” the admiral blankly replies.   
“Teach me how to fight,” Jessamine repeats. “I would not go out into the streets only to be killed or attacked or something of equal danger.” She raises her hand before Havelock can protest and says in a tone of iron and steel, “I will not sit here and wait for fate to come to me. I will go out into Dunwall myself and regain my throne and my people.” After all, sitting and waiting is what got her here in the first place. Jessamine Kaldwin does not intend to repeat her mistakes again.   
  
Havelock sighs heavily when he sees the resolve on his empress’s face. He knows when he’s beat, and this is evidently one of those times. He inclines his head as he concedes, “Very well, my Empress. We may begin whenever you wish.”    
  
And that is how Jessamine is first inducted into the arts of killing. Well, not exactly, she amends as she practices dodging and sparring with Havelock. Corvo taught her the very basics of how to protect herself once upon a time. They were younger then, happier and carefree and innocent in a world that was much brighter than what it is now. Jessamine sways out of the way and lunges just like Corvo showed her once, and Havelock falls to the ground with a surprised huff and a thump as his body slams into the ground. Jessamine tightens her hold around his neck and feels his breath constrict under her touch. “Good enough?” she asks low and sharp. Havelock cannot gasp out a coherent assent, but it’s enough for Jessamine. She loosens her hold and stands up to examine a few more bruises and scratches along her arms. The Mark under her glove still burns slightly, and Jessamine fancies that she can feel the sensation of the Outsider watching her from the Void   
  
_ Well, so be it, Outsider. I cannot entertain you if I do not have the means to do so, _ Jessamine thinks.  _ Patience, whale god. Heavens knows you must have had the centuries to hone it.  _   
  
Time trickles past, and Jessamine grows stronger. Her movements become more agile, and she practices rolling and stepping silently in her new hideaway: the attic of the pub.    
The Heart still whispers secrets to her: stories and snippets of truths. Apparently, the Outsider regularly visits Piero Joplin’s dreams to the point where the man is maddened with his visions of new technology. When Jessamine corners Piero to insist that he get a good night’s sleep, he mutters words about how he survived a night without sleep to craft the ultimate heart and still managed to produce work beyond compare. Jessamine blinks at the revelation, and in that moment, Piero manages to scuttle away.   
  
Evidently, the Outsider enjoys telling lies. The Heart shifts slightly in her pocket and sighs out in a sibilant tone so familiar to Corvo’s.  _ A day? _ Jessamine muses.  _ How much have you pushed Mr. Joplin past his limit, Outsider? _ __   
  
Jessamine can tell that she’s changing. She can tell from the way she slides so easily into shadow when she struggled before. She can see it from the way she can quickly incapacitate her targets and hide them away before others notice. She feels it from the way the Outsider’s power surges and swells from her Mark and the bone charms that she amasses. Now, when she blinks across the cityscape, she does so with an exhilarated breath of laughter and veritably dances across her city. Dunwall always looked so beautiful to her despite the grey and the black and the grime of it.


	6. gifts of metal and bone

“For you, your Imperial Highness,” Piero says suddenly as he enters into her attic after a single knock. He thrusts out his hand to her, and in it, there is a single wrapped package, tied up with an old bit of oil-stained cloth.

“What is it?” Jessamine asks after pushing her hair out of the way. She tied it up with her bandage before practicing a few punches and kicks, but a few strands always managed to escape.  She moves away the cloth to reveal a mask. It’s hammered out of metal, but it looks like a monstrosity. Almost as if death itself was looking back at her. 

“Well, what are you waiting for, Empress?” Piero urges. “Put it on.”

Jessamine tries to stall for time by asking, “For what? Why would I need it?”

Piero clicks his tongue with disapproval and explains as if he were talking to a child, “Your face is known across the empire, Empress. You must have a way of concealing your identity if you insist on traveling in the city streets as openly and dangerously as you do.”

Jessamine realizes that Piero Joplin is absolutely right.  
With reluctance, she puts on the mask and it latches on perfectly, as if it were made for her.  _ Well, that was a silly thought, _ she ruefully thinks to herself. It  _ was _ made for her, but the measurements were uncanny.  _ Did you give the inventor my measurements as well, Outsider? Getting bold, aren’t we? _ she thinks.

Piero leans in to adjust the lens on the mask, and suddenly, Jessamine finds that she can zoom in and out. She gets an unfortunate up-close glance at Piero’s nose, but it is an exciting revelation. At first, the metal of the mask was cold, but it quickly warms to her own temperature. The gears along the side of it click softly as she zooms out to normal vision once more. “Thank you,” Jessamine says with awe. Her voice sounds slightly tinny, more stifled, under the mask which suffices to hide her identity even more.

“All in a day’s work,” Piero says with a slight ruffle of pride. “Well,” he admits. “It was more than a day’s work. I might have been able to make a miracle in a day once, but not for this one, no.” Jessamine lays a hand on his shoulder and repeats, “Thank you.”  
Piero grumbles goodnaturedly before ambling out of the room again. Just before he leaves, he calls out, “I’ve been developing weapons for you as well. Stop by before you go out again next week.”

“Ridiculous,” Jessamine breathes out. “And brilliant.”

“ _ He is Piero Joplin,” _ the Heart agrees. “ _ Even now, he visualizes the next invention — astonishing. I wish you could see it too.” _

“But poor Piero,” Jessamine replies as she reaches into her pocket to grasp the Heart. “He looks so tired, almost feverish with his dreams and ideas.”

_ “His elixirs have cured so much for so many,” _ the Heart sighs out. _ “But they cannot cure his brain fevers.” _

That is how Jessamine begins to wander the streets with newer weapons crafted just for her and the skull mask securely on her face. The Heart still whispers to her and shows her just the right path to take. But one night, as she digs her way through rubble in an abandoned apartment to get at a shrine, she finds the Outsider leaning against the wall with an expectant look laced in the set of his lips and the glint of his eyes.

The light of the full moon gleams off her mask, and Jessamine adjusts her vision to accomodate for the shadows and the darkness. “Hello, Outsider,” she says neutrally. Hopefully, she’ll be able to keep her emotions and thoughts in check long enough to refrain from punching the Outsider in the jaw. No matter what the story, it always was a bad idea to attack a god.

“Hello, Empress Jessamine,” he greets in reply. “You’ve been preparing.” He says it like a flat statement, and even Jessamine can tell the distinct curl of disappointment in that single sentence.

“My apologies,” Jessamine shoots back. “Should I have been practicing my dancing instead?”

The Outsider laughs mirthlessly at that. “You have been practicing a dance of a different sort, Empress,” he says. “Would Corvo approve? I still believe that it would have been much more entertaining to have Corvo on your end instead. He never broke nor begged, never even once, whether it be in Coldridge Prison or in the events after that. Not to me and not to anyone else.” Jessamine’s eyes flash, but the Outsider holds up a hand, and her voice dies in her throat. “Emily is still alive but who knows for how long?” he muses. His tone grows harder as he continues, “When the simple, petty plans of man change and shift, how will you react, Jessamine Kaldwin? The answer so far has been  _ not enough.” _

When Jessamine finds her voice again, she hisses out, “I will not break, and I will not yield. I will not  _ beg _ .”

“And what?” the Outsider mocks. “Will you wait for devastation to find you instead like you did before?”

“Preparations must be made before you begin a show,” Jessamine counters. “If I dived into the palace to kill and spill blood as you seem to wish, I would die. There goes your show. Brief and pitifully lived.”

The Outsider shrugs, “Blood is so predictable. Entertaining for a short moment, but nothing more. Chaos is expected. I  _ know _ that. But what you are doing is slow. There is nothing  _ entertaining _ about this sloth-like movement and action. You amass more and more power by seeking out my bone charms and using my Mark. I even gave you weapons and a mask to use. But what will you do with it?”

Jessamine stiffens slightly, and the metal of her mask seems to grow colder on her face. She knew that the Outsider must have influenced Piero somehow, but to hear it from his own lips makes it seem so… Wrong. To have a  _ god _ invade your dreams and consume your waking days with feverish ideas seemed so incredibly invasive. She can’t help but shudder, and the Outsider’s oil-slick eyes pin her once more. 

“I am growing bored,” the Outsider finishes. “And I do not enjoy being bored.”

Jessamine’s Marked hand shakes slightly, and she snaps, “Evidently, immortality has not taught you  _ patience _ , whale god. If even a mortal like I can wait and bide my time moreso than you, what does that reflect upon you?” A few thoughts flicker through her mind: words like  _ petty, impatient, childish. _

The Outsider suddenly barks out a laugh, this time with genuine amusement in it. “You have not lost your bite, Empress, if your thoughts are any indicator of it,” he says. Jessamine recoils slightly. She did not know that he could read her thoughts. Jessamine grits her teeth; she should have expected something like it though. 

“Very well,” the Outsider concedes. “I will wait, and I will watch.” A glint flashes in his depthless eyes, and he fades from her view. The shrine dims and dulls as well, but the Outsider never leaves without having the final word.

“I only Mark a few, Jessamine Kaldwin, and I do not give it lightly. Make sure that you are worthy enough to keep it. It would be a shame if I were to take it back mid-blink.”

Jessamine leaves the shrine, weak-kneed and bitter-mouthed. A new bone-charm lies in her pocket, but she doesn’t bother to brush her fingertips across it and test it out like she usually does. She does not blink home across buildings and through shadows like she usually would. The mask feels cold on her face, and the sense of time — usually so warped and slowed for her — feels like a rush on her too-short deadline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the outsider is basically me telling myself that 1. i need to start writing longer chapters and 2. i need to get the story going lol


	7. ruins of a palace within my dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "team" - lorde

One night, Jessamine sneaks back into her attic room and collapses down on her bed with a rush of breath as she exhales out. Her heart is beating fast, and the Heart in her pocket continues to whisper to her quietly. She reaches up to take off her mask and tosses it carelessly to the side. It lands softly on the limited space next to her pillow, and she privately thanks her lucky stars it landed there instead of on the floor. She doesn’t know what Piero would do if he found out that she broke his magnificent creation by tossing it so carelessly onto the floor without a single thought.

“Oh, Heart,” Jessamine whispers back to the Heart. “Tonight was a  _ night _ .”

Out of a brief surge of sentimentality and a sickening need to know, Jessamine crept out of her room to revisit the gazebo. Somehow, she managed to sneak her way past a multitude of Overseers and members of the City Watch as well as regular nobles. The adrenaline is still pumping through her veins, and she sucks in a mouthful of air as she tries to regain her breath. 

She reflects back on the experience and thinks it was a rather fruitless mission with too much danger to ever be worth it. Besides, the conclusion was utterly dull. There were no blood stains or marks or anything to show the dramatic turn of events that Jessamine’s life spiralled down. It had been cleaned thoroughly on Hiram’s orders, no doubt. The man always had a penchant for cleanliness and order. It was one of the qualities that made him an excellent Spymaster; he was always so thorough in his investigations.  
Jessamine sighs and tugs the bandage out of her hair. Her hair goes loose and limp on her pillow, and she stares up at the wooden ceiling. With her teeth, she tugs off the glove on her hand and raises it up as well. It shudders with the kind of power Jessamine now knows how to call.

Part of her worries that she will be found out. Perhaps some Overseer would catch a glimpse of it despite her gloves or perhaps the Outsider himself would come to do some worse deed. She doesn't know for sure, but she thinks that Overseer Martin might have caught a glimpse of it.

With those kinds of thoughts swirling around in her head, Jessamine struggles her way into sleep and dreams. When she dreams, she doesn’t dream of Emily’s screams or Corvo’s grunts of pain. Instead, it is a blissfully blank dream with nothing but whalesong.

When Jessamine wakes up, she stretches and yawns in the ragged bed before getting up and examining her clothes. She forgot to change her clothes, so at least she won’t have to slip into something more presentable before going downstairs.

Admiral Havelock is up, bright and early, but his face is drawn taut with worry and stress and strangely, furious anger. He paces back and forth, over and over and over again on the worn pub floor. Piero is nowhere to be seen, but Lord Pendleton is slumped over in a nearby seat with his fingers pressed to his temples. Cecelia, Callista, Wallace, and Lydia are also nowhere to be seen. She can’t blame them.

“Good morning,” she says softly, hoping not to startle them too badly. Havelock and Martin in particular tend to turn around with murder in their eyes and hands twitching to their belts when Jessamine approaches them without their notice. She figures it’s to be expected especially when they’re all running a conspiracy. 

Havelock turns on his heel and gives her an unfathomable look, searching her up and down as if she had something to hide. The Mark burns under her gloves and reminds her that indeed she does. Jessamine doesn’t think it’s exactly that though. “Is there a problem?” she inquires in a soft, bland tone. It’s the kind of tone she tends to use most often with troublesome members of the court and nobility. 

“You said that you wanted to go through with a plan that was more clandestine,” Havelock abruptly says. Lord Pendleton stirs in his seat and raises his eyes to look at her. 

“Yes?” Jessamine replies cautiously.

Havelock huffs out a sharp exhale of breath as he says bluntly, “High Overseer Campbell. Completely corrupt and an ally to the Lord Regent. Martin was attempting to find out more secrets and blackmail he might have had, but he was captured.” He sucks in a breath before saying with finality, “Infiltrate the Office of the High Overseer. Steal his journal and eliminate him. Then, free Martin and let him escape.”

Not a question, not even a statement. Simply a demand, an order from a man who was used to giving them out. Jessamine supposes it is a side effect of being an Admiral. Wind-battered and roughened with sea-salt after times on the high seas, the Admiral was not a man to consider or take lightly. She expects him to be more respectful to her, but at the same time, she has no throne or crown to back that expectation up. Besides, the two have been kicking and punching and sparring with each other for the past weeks. No doubt his previous sense of empress-worship has already worn off.

Pendleton now springs up out of his seat and exclaims, “You can’t just expect the Empress to go in there and do that. Who do you think she is? The Knife of Dunwall? The Lord Protector? She can’t do anything like that!” The color drains from his face when he realizes what he just said.

Jessamine takes an abrupt step back when she hears both the title of the assassin who stole her child and the title of her lover one after another. She immediately chides herself mentally for that momentary lapse, that momentary grief. It’s not like Corvo’s death was yesterday; she had  _ weeks _ upon weeks to get over it. But grief is a fickle yet stationary thing that still traps itself in her heart. Her face grows sharp and severe in its solemnity, and she says lowly, “Do not underestimate me, Lord Pendleton. I would be  _ happy _ to take the offer. Leave it to me.” Her last sentence turns icy and cold with its tone.

Havelock rears back slightly, realizing what he just did to his Empress, but Jessamine holds up a hand. “It is too late, Admiral,” she says dryly. “You asked, I shall deliver. After all, what kind of empress would I be if I waited for everything to be done for me?” 

(Like before, she thinks bitterly.)

And with that, she leaves the room to go back up to her attic room, hopefully to go through her inventory of weapons and supplies and to prepare. Before she can go up the stairs though, a voice softly calls out, “Your Imperial Highness!”

Jessamine glances behind her to see Callista. The girl’s face looks exhausted, far too much for one her age. The dark circles underneath her eyes are prominent, and her lips are pressed thinly together. “Your Imperial Highness,” she repeats. “I… I couldn’t help but to overhear your conversation with the Admiral. Are you really going to— to murder the High Overseer?”

“It seems so,” Jessamine decides to say. Saying the truth may have been too blunt, but to Jessamine, it was far better to be jaded but with knowledge rather than a beautiful, ignorant fool. Instead of gasping or paling or something equally like that, Callista grits her teeth and says, “My uncle, he— Please, High Overseer has a murder plot devised for him. I would beg you to save him if you could, your Imperial Highness, when you go to kill the Overseer.”

Jessamine pauses, mouth slightly open. This was certainly something she didn’t expect, but she nods and says, “I will try my best, Callista. I cannot promise anything more.”

A smile breaks out on Callista’s face like a miniature sunrise, and she nods happily before rushing off to do some other work in the musty depths of the pub. 

Jessamine idly puts her hand in her pocket, and the Heart whispers,  _ “Watch your steps, Empress. You are walking down a dangerous path.”  _

“When am I ever not?” she muses as she steps up the stairs. The old floorboards creak under the weight of her steps, but she continues to ascend upwards back to her attic. 

“ _ Always, Jessamine, always,” _ the Heart sighs in reply.

Jessamine swallows and stands in the doorway of her room as she breathes out, “What would you have done, Corvo, if you were in my place then?” Her own heart feels like it’s off by one beat when she says his name out loud. The comments the Heart makes and the  _ sound  _ of its voice is simply too uncanny and similar to the man she once loved with all of her heart. It  _ has _ to be Corvo, and the Outsider would certainly be the kind of man to take delight in such a twisted thing. To give her the heart of her lover was… A cruel thing. An entertaining thing, no doubt.

“Perhaps you would have progressed much faster than this,” she says out loud, still standing. She sighs and shakes her head slightly. “Actually, you may have been thrown into Coldridge Prison if the assassin hadn’t killed you as well as me. It’s become a mess of things, my heart.”

The Heart pauses for only a moment before it breathes out, “ _ There is always chance, Jessamine.” _

“So,” Jessamine hesitantly whispers out. “Are you Corvo Attano, Heart?”

The Heart remains silent. 

Jessamine sighs and pulls her hand out of her pocket. She steps over to grab the bandage lying limply on her bed and reaches up to tie her loose hair back. It’s nothing like the elegant coiffed style she used to keep it in, but it’s easier and more efficient to have it tied back like this. The mask remains on the bed as well, beckoning her over. With a sibilant sigh, she latches it back on her face and feels the cold metal on her face.

She has a job to do now.


	8. strictures and confessions

A confession: Empress Jessamine Kaldwin of the Empire of the Isles has never liked the Abbey of the Everyman.

The idea that the entire world was so full of hostility and danger never really appealed to her. She was always the type to believe in forgiveness and the immense possibility and capability to be  _ kind _ . The sermons tended to be dry and ominous, and when she was young, Corvo had to nudge her every now and then to keep her from falling asleep. However, she was never the kind of fool to go against anything the Abbey dictated. Besides, excessive breaches of the Seven Strictures  _ were _ too much and criminal. 

And now that she bore the Mark of the Outsider on her hand, she cannot do anything to alert the Abbey’s attention. “Well,” Jessamine whispers to herself under the shield of her mask. “You’re certainly diving into the thick of things then.”

There is an open balcony, and quite honestly, Jessamine doesn’t want to risk going down the main street. The wall of light is more than enough incentive to make her travel upwards and onwards. That is how she meets Granny Rags: a wrinkled, aging woman with greying hair and babbling words. When Jessamine first hears the noise and the old woman’s sudden disappearance, her initial instinct is to flee or blink away in a fade of light. However, pure curiosity and concern keep her going forward.

“Excuse me?” she tries. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Oh, is that you, my dear husband?” the old woman asks in her quavering voice. Jessamine’s heart breaks for her; it seems like her husband is dead, and Jessamine can always sympathize with the loss of a loved one. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be,” the woman sighs out. 

Granny Rags is what she appears to call herself. Jessamine doesn’t know anything more, but the sound of knocking against the door and the pitter-patter of rats’ feet along the edges of the room distract her from asking more. “Oh, those gentlemen callers are back again,” Granny Rags complains. Her milky eyes turn on Jessamine, and she says knowingly, “You too must know what they’re like, dear. Always there to kiss your hand, and always there when you don’t want them. They only like you when you’re dressed in your finery and pretty baubles, not when you’re wearing rags.”

Jessamine flinches, and rationally, she knows this granny wouldn’t even know who she is. Her mask covers her facial features, and the entire empire believes she is dead courtesy of her own Lord Protector. Granny Rags clicks her tongue and hands her a key as she says, “Here’s the key to the front door, love. You’ll see to those ruffians, won’t you?”

Jessamine sighs before she nods and takes the key. She just… She just feels so bad for this poor old woman who seems to be without family or friends, all alone in her rickety house with no other hobby than what seems to be feeding birds. Jessamine smiles sadly under her mask; this is what her city has been reduced to. The Heart hums insistently in her pocket, almost as if it were begging her to hold it, but Jessamine pays it no heed. 

Instead, she strides to the front door and readies herself to have a little chat, but then, she suddenly realizes the gravity of her position. Her mask is striking and recognizable, and it’s not exactly suitable for anything like diplomatic approach. She’s equipped with fine weapons, and if that doesn’t seem threatening already, Jessamine doesn’t know what is. With a slight slump of her shoulders, she turns around and comes back the way she came to drop down on the “gentlemen callers” and choke them out.

_ A Tyvian chokehold _ , she thinks distantly. This was something Corvo once taught her long ago.

Jessamine returns to Granny Rags, and to her surprise, Granny folds her hands together and croons, “Oh, I knew that you would handle those ill-mannered boys for me, my sweet girl. Listen, Granny has a birthday present for you. I got it from the Outsider and now, I’m giving it to you. Go on, it’s upstairs on the vanity. I think you’ll cut a nice figure with it. Remember how we used to dance?” Granny Rags waves her hand as she continues with a sigh, “Our parties were even grander than those held at the Boyle manor. Everyone wanted to come.”

Jessamine’s shoulders stiffen as Granny speaks, and with a horrifying realization, she thinks she might have known Granny Rags’ name and reputation before she spiralled into this poverty. She struggles to remember anything notable from her studies or her circles at the court, but she remembers nothing. Still, she ascends the stairs and with the Heart’s help, she finds a  _ rune _ . 

Then, Granny suddenly transverses up behind her and hums, “I hope you like the little gift I got for you. It was the least I could do for turning those louts away.” Her expression sours as she continues, “I can’t  _ bear _ those Bottle Street children. Ruffians, every last one of them. Rotten apples. And that Slackjaw is the worst of the lot.” A cold smile curls around the old woman’s lips, and a chill runs down Jessamine’s back.

If Granny’s sudden transversal wasn’t enough for suspicion, this is more than telling. A mention of the Outsider’s name? A rune? She also swears Granny’s eyes linger too long on her gloved hands. When Granny asks her to poison an illegal distillery with rat guts no less, Jessamine has to firmly shake her head. She will not infect another group’s elixir still for the sake of a single woman. 

Granny Rags simply tuts and turns away to feed her birdies presumably. Jessamine takes the opportunity to grasp the Heart in her hand and point it at Granny Rags. “ _ Long ago, Granny Rags danced at court. Men begged to marry her,” _ the Heart obligingly reveals.  _ “In her mind’s eye, she is fancy, trimmed in velvet, fresh and young, on her way to an evening of romance.” _

Again, Jessamine’s heart tugs slightly with pity, but the tug is far less than what it used to be. She has little sympathy for a woman who would callously treat lives and the plague like that. WIth a shake of her head and a fade of the light, Jessamine blinks out of the house and back onto the street. She crosses through the underpass with quick steps and chokes out anyone who treads too closely. For some reason, she can’t bring herself to kill anyone. That was never the intent of her reign, and that would not be her intent now. 

_ "The Abbey is dark — its doors are locked, and no more the great sermons. The Overseers have taken to the streets,”  _ the Heart begins. Jessamine glances up at the high, vaulting walls o the Overseers’ base, and the same thought rolls around again and again in her mind. She never liked the Abbey of the Everyman. She kills none, but the Heart whispers secrets to her that make her blood boil hot. 

_ “They are experts at extracting confessions, even from the innocent,”  _ the Heart says with an edge of disgust curling its otherworldly voice.  _ "He has no care if the ones he kills are heretics or innocents."  _

Corvo never liked the Abbey either.

Her dislike increases exponentially when she sees Martin trapped and exposed to the elements. No doubt the Overseers placed people there to be bitten by nature’s wrath whether it be heat or light or rain or wind. A simple lever frees Martin, and he brushes himself off as he says, “Thank you, your Imperial Highness. I knew you would come.” 

The way his voice edges with cunning and barely-masked superiority rankles and irks Jessamine. The tone from his voice has not disappeared since he taunted his guard, and the Heart says, _ “There are few brave enough to laugh in the Outsider's face. But Teague Martin is one.” _

Jessamine huffs out a small breath as she thinks,  _ Am I one of the brave few then, Corvo? _

“Campbell keeps a notorious black book, full of blackmail and whatever else he thinks is of importance,” Martin warns. “Kill Campbell and bring it back to the pub.” He tacks on a belated “Your Imperial Highness” at the end. 

Jessamine knows Martin cannot see her face under the mask, but she raises an eyebrow regardless. “What do you intend on doing with the book?” she asks. 

Martin’s face breaks into a small, oily smile as he splays his hands out and gestures to the base. “We could do so much with the information in that book,” he whispers, voice heavy with promise and calculation.  _ So many things that could go wrong with that,  _ Jessamine thinks. Perhaps it’s a side effect of being betrayed by your own Spymaster, but it makes her uneasy.

He says absolutely nothing about her powers nor heresy. Instead, Martin simply leaves, and so does Jessamine. She creeps through the shadows and turns the corners with extra care. The Heart pulsates whenever she comes near a rune or bone charm as always, and she goes through each room and area with care. The song of the Void thrums along her skin when she pockets another bone charm, and in a rare moment of mischief, Jessamine takes off her mask and sticks her tongue out at the sky.  _ Take that, Outsider, _ she thinks with a certain degree of satisfaction.  _ You wanted entertainment? Have fun watching me put unconscious bodies away _ . 

She finds many things: secrets that the Heart sighs out, books and notes and journals, and even a Sokolov painting. Jessamine stares at the painting and shakes her head. She never understood the obsession with the Sokolov paintings that nearly every noble seemed to have. Sokolov painted her once. It should still be on the second floor of Dunwall Tower if she remembers correctly. And with a few pokes and prods with wires and whatnot, Jessamine somehow manages to disable the alarms along the sides of the base. Campbell’s secret room fills her with disgust, and she surveys the pile of lingerie with a wrinkled nose. Was this how a man of faith should live?  _ Seven Strictures, my ass, _ she thinks. 

She even discovers the branding practice of the Overseers, and a twisted idea begins to slowly take root in her mind as she stares at the brand. 

Jessamine does not want to kill; if she killed everything in her way, she would barely have a city to rule anymore. Besides, it went against her morals. But… The knot of anger and rage in the center of her heart remains burning bright and steady. Jessamine had to physically stop and clench her fists when the Heart told her of yet another corrupt Overseer. Did these people even deserve to live? 

She sets down the brand on the table gently and asks out loud, “Corvo, what would you have done?”

Silence is her only answer, and she has to wonder if that in of itself is an answer. Would Corvo infiltrate the Abbey of the Everyman to presumably murder the High Overseer? Jessamine chuckles lightly. Probably not. He’d be busy with his duties as Lord Protector, and Emily would have dominated the rest of his free time. Her small smile sours at the edge when she realizes that isn’t possible anymore.

Jessamine glances behind her back. Good, no one has woken up yet. The path is clear for her to take. Her feet barely make a sound as she creeps down the halls, and her body fades away in a brief shimmer as she blinks through the base. 

The rest of the events seem to spiral into a blur. She actually spills the wine meant for Captain Curnow accidentally, and she swears under her breath heavily when she does it: dark Serkonan swears that Corvo used to hiss out under his breath when he thought no one could hear. Jessamine always had sharper ears than most although she did not use it enough. Jessamine quickly blinks up to a safer hiding spot when she hears footsteps coming, and ultimately, she did end up saving Callista’s uncle albeit in an entirely unintentional way. 

From her position underneath the table, she takes the opportunity to flash the Heart at Campbell. The sound of Corvo’s voice is withering and disdainful as the Heart hisses, “ _ Campbell breaks all Seven Strictures each day. It's his own little joke. He angers easily and takes revenge without mercy." _

Jessamine grits her teeth as her anger threatens to get the better of her. When she looks at Campbell’s simperingly false expression, rage floods her veins. This was one of the men that plotted to kill her and kidnap her daughter. A crime that is truly unforgivable. Her hands clench on the grip of her sword, and she’s oh so ready to burst out from under the table and strike her blade down Campbell’s throat.  _ It would be so easy, _ she realizes.  _ So easy to snap a life from him with a single strike. _

However, a single thought sends chills down her back just as she adjusts her grip on her sword and prepares to duck out from underneath the table.

_ Was this how the assassin felt when he killed Corvo? When he tried to kill me? _

Disgust floods her tongue as she whispers out, “Never. Never will I sink to  _ that _ level.” With that, she switches her sword out for a sleep dart, and Campbell falls to the ground with an anticlimactic thud. 

Curnow whirls around, ready to attack, and she can see how he flinches at the sight of her mask. However, she holds her hand up and with her other hand, removes the mask from her face. Curnow’s face pales as he takes in her appearance, and he breathes out softly, “Your Imperial Highness! Y-you’re supposed to be  _ dead _ .” 

“The Royal Spymaster would have liked me to be dead as well,” Jessamine returns. Her mouth pinches into a thin line before she quips, “Oh, my apologies. It’s  _ Lord Regent _ now, isn’t it?” She shakes her head; she won’t dwell on those thoughts now. “Your niece, Callista, has been searching for you,” she chooses to say instead. “The way out should be clear. No guards, no wolfhounds. I advise you to flee and to flee quickly.”

Captain Curnow looks at Campbell’s body before looking at her again. Jessamine can see the way his eyes flick to her sword, her coat, and the garish mask still in her hand. “Did you kill all of them?” he asks with a tinge of hesitation.

Jessamine bares her teeth into a smile that skirts the edges of courtesy and etiquette. “I advise you to flee and to flee quickly,” she repeats again. “I will finish business here and join you later on to guide you back to your niece. She misses you dearly.”

“Yes, your Imperial Highness,” Curnow affirms before he turns on his heel and strides out of the room.

Jessamine bends down over Campbell’s body and searches through his pockets. She grimaces as he snorts and burps slightly in his induced sleep, and finally, she finds the black-bound book. 

Just in case, she points the Heart at Campbell again, and it grudgingly says,  _ "Don't let the talk of faith fool you. Campbell is vain, lustful, decadent - and completely corrupt. He uses his position of power for personal gain and the pursuit of pleasure." _

Jessamine nods firmly and hoists Campbell’s body up over her shoulder. The decision has been made. She lurches slightly to the side as she tries to accommodate his weight; she’s never carried anything or anyone as heavy as Campbell. However. she’s done her fair share of training whether it be hauling unconscious Overseers around or carrying heavy loads to help out Cecelia and Samuel. She carries him all the way back to the branding room and lashes him down for good measure. Campbell only wakes up then, and he jolts and shivers with fear when he sees Jessamine’s mask. 

“Let go of me, you fiend,” he blusters at first. “I’ll have you punished for this! The audacity!” 

Jessamine pays him no heed as she prepares the brand. She’s never done it before, but she knows enough of the general principle to wing it. Campbell’s eyes widen as he realizes that there’s little hope, and he quickly changes his tactics as he whimpers, “Please,  _ please _ , anything but that! I can give you all the wealth, all the power, all the glory you could ever want! Just not that! Not that!”

Jessamine pauses for a moment with the red-hot brand in her hand. “The Empress and the Lord Protector did not  _ beg  _ when they were to be killed,” she snorts. “Be grateful that you won’t be killed. This will be the end of your crimes, whether they be lust, decadence, or uncontrollable greed, Thaddeus Campbell. Good riddance.”

The scent of burning flesh does not leave Jessamine’s nose or memory even when she steals out of the base, far from the former High Overseer’s screams and the sounds of hot iron touching skin. Even the cool water-scent of the Wrenhaven cannot erase them as Samuel leads his boat away from the base and back to the Hound Pits pub. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof it's been a while. i'll try to write and post more as soon as i can ;u; let me know if you liked the chapter by commenting!


	9. secrets in an expression

“Bonded Galvani weave,” Jessamine begins as she drops it on top of Piero’s worn desk in his workshop. “Can you use it?”   


Piero glances up from his latest creation and repeats absent-mindedly, “Bonded Galvani weave? No, it can’t be.”

Jessamine laughs lightly and pushes it forward. “See for yourself. I picked it up in the Overseers’ base and thought you might like it.”

Piero rubs his hands together with anticipation and strides forward to pick up the weave in his hands. “Ah, you’re right,” he murmurs under his breath. His eyes flick back and forth, tracking the way the light from his oil lamp gleams and shines on the weave. “Excellent work, Empress. I can use this to upgrade some of your equipment.”

Jessamine laughs again and pulls out her next surprise from behind her back. “Oh, just wait, Piero. I have something more too. A Sokolov painting.” She tosses it on his desk too, and the minute Piero catches a glimpse of it, the expression on his face withers away to disgust. 

“You brought  _ Sokolov’s  _ work into  _ my _ workshop,” he mutters. “Cheeky. Saucy. Utterly unacceptable. Take it out. Now. I don’t want to see a single bit of Sokolov whether it be his work or his paintings or anything else that touched him at any point in time.”

Jessamine waves her hand at Piero as she says nonchalantly, “But Piero, you do have to admit it must be worth quite a bit of money.” With a smile curling around her lips, she leaves the matter at that and heads back to her attic.

Callista is there, waiting by her attic door, and Jessamine calls out, “Callista, is that you?” She only meant it as a warning since her steps seem to have grown too quiet for anyone to reasonably hear, but the girl still jumps a little bit. 

“H-hello, your Imperial Highness,” Callista stammers. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my uncle.”

Jessamine can’t help but break into a genuine smile as she steps forward and pats Callista’s shoulder reassuringly. “I said I would try, didn’t I? I’m glad things worked out well. He’s safe and healthy, isn’t he? Tell him to take care for me,” she requests. Callista nods fervently before she bustles off downstairs. 

Callista was a quiet girl. It was good to see her with more of a smile around her face, and Jessamine has to admit she’s grown fond of the girl. It was only a shame she bore such a serious countenance most of the time; a smile looked good on her.

_ “She has learned to defend herself in this treacherous city,” _ the Heart comments.  _ “She dreams of freedom and the decks of whaling ships fast after the beasts of sea! But alas, she is a woman.” _

Jessamine’s lips purse when she hears the last word. A woman.

Truly, this city, and indeed, most of the empire, doubted the ability of a woman. She remembers the whispers around her own coronation. Too many believed her to be soft and unworthy of the throne.  _ A son would have been more favorable for the empty throne. Oh, poor Euhorn Kaldwin! _ the nobles had whispered when they thought she (or Corvo) weren’t listening. But, the fact remained that she had Kaldwin blood and they did not. 

Jessamine wryly mutters, “They weren’t wrong.” She  _ was _ too soft for the throne, too blind and too trusting. 

The Heart immediately rushes to say, “ _ Nobles hide behind their masks and lies to shield their cowardice and crimes from view.” _

“But, my heart, that does not mean that they cannot see the truth,” Jessamine replies gently. The agony and the anger subsides and hardens into a tough knot at the center of her heart over the passing weeks and months, but the anger at her own folly still remains hot and bright. No, she couldn’t throw her rage at the nobles. They weren’t the ones who caused the entire event to unravel below her feet. That is entirely her own negligence.

Jessamine steps into her attic room and flops down on her bed to stare at the ceiling. She still has the black book in her pockets. Martin had stopped her earlier in the pub to ask if she found it, but Jessamine shook her head and left to find Piero. 

She still doesn’t know why she did it, but something about Martin sets her at unease. She reaches into her pocket and fishes the book out to flip it open. As she looks through it, she finds that the entire book is comprised of some sort of cipher. Jessamine groans and tosses it aside with indignation. It figures that such a disgusting man would take this many steps to conceal and utilize his blackmail. With reluctance, she picks the book up again and conceals it among her things. Just in case, she lays down two long strands of her dark hair over the book. She doubts that someone would dig this far to reach the book, but just in case, she leaves the two strands in a facsimile of the Mark on the back of her hand. That way, no one would be able to recreate it exactly as it was before.

Jessamine departs her attic room and starts helping out the other inhabitants with whatever they need. She chases off Piero when he starts making unwanted comments of machines of a sexual nature with Callista, and she helps Cecelia sweep and clean. She helps Samuel repair some things aboard his small skiff, and she even helps Wallace lift some heavy bags.

She discovers some audiograph recordings that Pendleton made of his own life as well as some recordings from Havelock. She can’t help but feel slightly guilty when she plays them back, but she reasons that it’s necessary for her to know as much as possible now. However, Havelock’s entries leave a sour taste at the back of her tongue. 

_ Log entry one-four. It seems we have moved to a new phase. Martin's improvisations have borne fruit, and the former bodyguard has been freed and is en route to the staging location. With Pendleton's voting bloc and my military connections, all we have lacked is the ability to project lethal force in a controlled manner against previously inaccessible - ah, to the point we need a man who can kill the bastards for us. Corvo would have been more than capable, of that, I have no doubt. A shame he was the one to die instead of the Empress. End log... Is this off? Switch, switch, where's the - _

Jessamine frowns as she listens. He’s really not wrong, frankly. Corvo would have been much more effective with controlling and eliminating targets than she could ever hope to be. She slots in the next recording and listens. 

_ Jessamine seems to be in good shape, much better than what I expected given she was wandering the streets. She seems willing to work with us, and she shouldn’t lack for motivation. The woman had lost everything, and now she wants to fight back. We’ll judge how she performs, and she wants to be trained. I’ll find a way to test her personally. _

Jessamine purses her lips as she slots in the final recording. She won’t deny that Havelock played a large role in teaching her more deadly skills, but the way he says it makes it seem like she’s a tool to use, nothing more and nothing less. She knows that it’s irrational, so she slides the thought aside as the last one plays. 

_ Jessamine’s proved her abilities, beyond question. It’s not anyone who can walk into Holger Squate and put down the High Overseer. And now, we’re faced with the question: could she be dangerous? Events are going to move quickly now. The storm’s rising.  _

Jessamine jolts when she hears Cecelia calling for her, so she hastily puts everything back exactly how it used to be. With a sigh, she leaves with silent footsteps, hoping that no one would ever find out about her snooping.

Two or three days pass before Havelock calls her down for another meeting.  “We think we have it settled,” he says as she walks through the door. “Pendleton?”

Jessamine swivels her gaze over to Pendleton who looks pale and sweaty. He clears his throat and says shakily, “We believe that Emily is being held at the Golden Cat by my brothers, Custis and Morgan.” 

“Your brothers?” Jessamine asks. “And where did you get this information? From your own brothers?”

“We have our ways,” Martin interrupts. He holds Jessamine’s gaze just as simply and expectantly as he did in the square. Jessamine has to restrain herself from bristling and turns back to Pendleton. 

“And? What else?” she urgently asks, voice edging with desperation. She must have her daughter back no matter the cost. 

“My brothers are… Loyal to the Lord Regent,” Pendleton says slowly. “They are despicable and corrupt. Cruel, even to me.” He sucks in a deep breath as he blurts out, “Find Emily at the Golden Cat and eliminate Lords Custis and Morgan Pendleton.”

“You would have me kill your own brothers?” Jessamine asks blankly. Then, her voice bleeds with anger as she snarls, “And they kept my daughter in a whorehouse?!” 

Pendleton winces before lowering his head. “If you must,” he finally says. “Just… Make it quick. I always despised my brothers, and for the cause, it must be done.”

Jessamine regards him with a keen eye, and the noble fidgets under his gaze. Martin remains as coolly impassive as ever, and Havelock paces as he tends to do. With a gusting sigh, she agrees, “Very well. The Golden Cat, you said? I will prepare to leave at once.” 

The heels of her boots click against the creaking wood of the floorboards and stair steps, and she doesn’t bother skipping the step that veritably screeches when stepped on. Silence doesn’t help her now. Not when there are others who know how to use it and have used it on her. 

When she arrives in her room, she digs through her things. Every dart, every knife, and every gold piece remains. The only thing that is disturbed are two strands of hair, laid carefully in a circle and a point, over a small, black book. However, when Jessamine tugs off her glove with her teeth and holds it up, the shape no longer matches the Mark. She drops the glove out of her mouth and mutters, “And to think he’s a holy man.”

“ _ Do not be deceived by his talk of Strictures, _ ” the Heart says when she scoops it out of her pocket. “ __ Martin’s crimes weigh heavy on his spirit.”  
“But is the weight enough to keep him from stealing and invading my privacy?” Jessamine hisses back.   
_ “He has been a soldier, a highway robber, and a man of faith. He wonders which is more powerful — the knife or the tongue,” _ the Heart replies.   
Jessamine snorts as she stands up, “Both, my heart, both are powers in their own right. And why would he be so intent on ciphering the book? Yes, he claims to be a Loyalist, but the look on his face says otherwise at times.”  
The Heart hesitates, and in the catch of its breath, Jessamine recognizes Corvo’s sigh. Just what did Corvo see in Martin’s dark past?  __ “He always had his sights set on the Abbey’s highest office,” the Heart finally says.

“An Overseer for an Overseer,” Jessamine muses as she surveys the mess surrounding her. In her haste to check on the book, she tossed everything aside. She stops a bottle of elixir from rolling too far away with her foot and bends down to pick up a few darts. “I wonder what he would do when he finds out he is aiding a so-called heretic,” she murmurs under her breath. “But then again, he must know by now. Teague Martin is anything but a fool, and Overseers always find what they seek.”

Jessamine tucks the darts and the elixirs into her coat pockets.  _ Blue, just like Corvo’s _ , she thinks as she smoothes the lapels down.  _ He always did like Karnacan blue. _

It also makes her wonder; how many secrets hide in an expression? How many secrets are hiding in Martin’s face, and how many secrets does Pendleton keep clutched in his jeweled hands? How many secrets does Havelock trawl for within the depths of the seas and in the depths of men? 

Jessamine pauses by her mirror and stares at her face. 

Black hair, tied roughly back with the same worn bandage. Skin that is still pale by virtue of the mechanical skull that hides her identity. Eyes that are grief-sharp and weary. Her face is still that of the Empress’s, but how many secrets hide in it now? She lifts up her hand hesitantly and examines the bold, black Mark that lies on the back of it.  

She swears that she can hear the Outsider’s taunting voice say, “ _ Strange how there's always a little more innocence left to lose.” _

She doesn’t have the time to waste on thoughts of expressions and change as inevitable as the turning tides. Her boots click against the creaking floorboards once more as she rushes out, ready to save her daughter and the shreds of innocence that she still has. “Not this time, Outsider. Not yet,” she snarls under her breath. “Not if I can help it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kjsdkjsd i haven't updated this in a while but i'll try to write more when i can ;; thank you for all the comments in the meantime! they rly motivate me to write more + i rly appreciate them!


	10. the parabola of lost seasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if i've been a little slow in updating! i've been trying to finish my other multi-chapter overwatch fic, "finding family", first so this one has been set on the theoretical back burner. i'm still trying my best to write more though! hope you enjoy the new chapter :")

A faint, stifled breeze wafts by Jessamine’s face when she steps outside; the flow of air is weak but still willing. Samuel is already there, waiting to take her to where she needs to go, but Curnow suddenly bursts out of the door, slightly out of breath from his exertion.

“Your Imperial Highness,” he pants out. “Wait for a minute, I wished to ask you something.”

Jessamine tilts her head as she regards him before she says bemusedly, “Alright, go on.”

“The Overseers,” he says haltingly. “You didn’t kill any of them.”

Jessamine arches an eyebrow and asks, “And?”

“I saw the newspapers. No casualties at all,” he says breathlessly and with widened eyes. “Oh, they made it seem terrible and horrific, but  _ no casualties.” _

“You are correct,” Jessamine affirms. “And why are you so intent on the one detail?”

Curnow shakes his head with amazement as he says, “Not a single one dead despite the grudge you could hold against them. That’s true mercy, my Empress, true mercy. I’m proud to serve you, your Imperial Highness. Forgive me, I wish I could stay longer, but I must return back to the Guard. Stay safe.” With that, he turns on his heel and leaves. Jessamine watches him leave, utterly dazed. She didn’t know he would take that to heart so seriously.

“He’s right, Empress,” Samuel says behind her. “What you did was something to be proud of. I’m very grateful for that, you know.”

“Thank you, Samuel,” Jessamine says softly as she climbs into the boat.

Samuel only nods before he poles away from the shore and guides the skiff down the flowing waters that continue to lap up against the shore.

Jessamine cranes her head up to gaze at Dunwall,  _ her _ city, and despite its grime and dirt and the plague, she realizes that she loves it still. She watches as some children run and play with bright laughter despite the dirt on their feet and their bedraggled clothes. She watches women and men alike as they struggle to earn their daily wages. She watches the way her city begins to crumble under the weight and the burden of the plague. Her heart aches, and the Heart thrums in her pocket in what she thinks to be a feeble attempt at reassurance.

Perhaps this is why she doesn’t kill as much as she thinks an assassin should. Plague or not, the weepers are still her people, and no matter the corruption, a life is a life. She will not demean herself or undermine her city in a wave of blood. Not like this. She will not be like Hiram.

Would Corvo be proud of her?

The Heart offers no response, but Jessamine hopes that the answer is yes.

Her thoughts turn to her daughter, and as she steps foot back onto solid land, she can only spare an absent-minded “thank you” to Samuel. Is Emily alright? Did they hurt her? Her blood roils at the thought of them hurting her daughter, and the Mark burns with the power that she could wield. Jessamine shakes her head firmly and strides away from the Wrenhaven; she cannot waste her time. The longer she takes, the longer Emily is forced to wait.

As she circles around the edges of the watchtower’s sights, she catches sight of a man who keeps tapping his foot and frowning as he did so. His eyes look up to see her, and a small flash of recognition burns in his eyes. 

“Oi, you, yeah, you,” he snaps in his low drawl. “Slackjaw’s lookin for ya.”

Of course. It’s the old Dunwall distillery. The one that she refused to poison for Granny Rags. She remembers the strong drink that they made here once. Distilled from River Krusts by the taste of it too. She tried it once and only once. She sighs as she thinks about the distillery. The brothels sprang up around the distilleries; they were inseparable. An unfortunate link that was fueled and continued by the cycle of alcohol and sex.

When she walks in, barely anyone spares a glance for her. It’s actually nice to walk around without fear of an Overseer or guard ready to capture and kill her. She’s just as illegal as a bunch of them, so she wanders as she sees fit. Of course, she’s still making her way to Slackjaw. She just… Takes a few detours now and then.

After peering at a few cabinets and “permanently borrowing” a few bites of food, she finds herself with a set of blueprints for Piero and newfound information about the entire distillery. Jessamine sighs as she eats the last of her food and wonders if she would have ever done this as an empress. Perhaps Corvo would end up having some business that forced him into this area of the city, but in the end, things were simply the way they were and she couldn’t bemoan her current predicament forever.

When she finally finds Slackjaw, he only looks… Bored.

“My men were right,” he muses as he gazes at her mask. “You do look like a man out for murder.”

Jessamine inclines her head and waits to see what he says. 

Slackjaw rubs his chin and says, “The way I see it, the only two men worth murdering are those damn Pendletons at the Golden Cat.” He pauses and judges her stance before chuckling, “I’m right, ain’t I?”

The way that Jessamine sees it, the offer that Slackjaw leaves on the metaphorical table is her best option. Someone else would handle the dirty business of handling the Pendletons, and the only thing she would have to do was find a missing person. She nods, and Slackjaw chortles. His laugh is as oily as his voice, and Jessamine wrinkles her nose under her mask. But it is nothing new; she saw and heard just as much in her own court. If anything, Slackjaw is more honest than the simpering nobles that she dealt with on a daily basis.

She leaves the way she arrived: masked and silent. 

Crowley is already dead when she finds his corpse, but she roots through his pockets just in case. It wouldn’t do to come back to Slackjaw empty-handed; even she knows that. So, she finds an audiograph and stows it away in her pocket. She glances up after a sudden noise, her eyes flicking around the room, and sighs when she sees that it’s only a rat. Jessamine reaches out her Marked hand, and tendrils of power beckon the rat closer. When she moves her hand to the side, it scurries and follows the movement of her hand. Even though she’s repulsed by her particular power over rats, she finds it strangely intriguing. Then, with a harsh motion, she flicks her hand toward a window and watches as the rat flings itself out. 

_ Good riddance _ , she thinks as she departs.

Of course, Slackjaw wants something more. Everyone always does, even herself. There is always something more to be had, and this time, it’s the safe combination for an art dealer by the name of Bunting. Jessamine herself is familiar with the name; she dealt with him over a few paintings back in the old days. 

Jessamine pauses when she thinks about  _ the old days. _ Bunting had tried to get away with a better deal than his offer was worth, but Corvo stopped him with a glare and pointed question that made the poor art dealer shake with fear. He chuckled afterwards, in their secret room, about the expression on Bunting’s face. A pity and a shame it was. She resists the temptation to reach into her pocket for the Heart and heads out of the distillery once more. 

Jessamine briefly contemplates the choice of heading to Bunting’s apartment right away. Perhaps the man kept the combination written down somewhere in that apartment of his. However, Emily was waiting for her, and the urgency of that mission beats fast and strong in her heart and in her veins. With a faster stride, she creeps through the shadows and blinks across the streets to the Golden Cat. 

She finds a few assassins, the same as those who had come to kill her. Temptation flickers across her mind before she stifles it down and chokes the assassins out. She would not save Emily with blood stained across her like a villain. Even the Heart could not extract more secrets out of them. " _ It is the same with all of Daud's men. They exist in the place of fog, _ ” it whispers half-heartedly.

Her limited time at the Golden Cat passes like a dream haze: quick and fleeting with blurs of color. Frankly, it’s more of a nightmare than a dream. Every time she turns around and sees another young girl trapped in the gilded cage of the Golden Cat, Jessamine realizes her own shortcomings as an Empress. Despite the guards and officials that she specifically sent to handle the human trade issue, girls still slipped through the woefully large gaps in her plan and ended up at the Golden Cat. Their mothers would sell their daughters for a few coins and nothing more, and their daughters often never knew until it was too late. Until they were reduced to  _ this _ . She wonders if her guards ever did the work that they were assigned to do. Perhaps they simply set down their weapons and indulged like any other man in the brothel. She stiffens and promises to do better, promises to reclaim her throne and crown and  _ do better _ .

Jessamine’s breath catches in her throat when she considers the possibilities of  _ Emily _ being reduced to nothing more than a courtesan at the Golden Cat. How would the other nobles take that? Would that set her apart? Imagine, the temptations and possibilities of  _ using _ an empress’s daughter? She shudders and moves even faster. She barely stops to extract the safe combination from Bunting, and her fingers stray a little too close to the deadly settings. However, she leaves the man locked in his strange and perverse seat and leaves to search for Emily again. 

She finds the Pendletons and before she shoots them with a sleep dart, she wonders how they diverged so far from their errant brother in the Hounds Pit. She sets the girls carefully on the bed; they had no fault in this. However, she leaves the Pendletons on the floor for Slackjaw to manage. She has the combination; he cannot refuse her now.

Cold dread rushes through her body as she searches further and further. Then, when she opens a door, a plaintive voice cries out, “Who are you?”

Emily stands there, eyes wide and watchful, and Jessamine tries to ignore the way her daughter’s bones seem to stick out over her skin. Her clothes are dingy and mussed, her hair ratty and tangled, but it’s her, safe and sound. Jessamine hurries towards her, forgetting her mask on her head. 

Emily stumbles back, and she repeats once more, “Who are you?” Fear edges into her tone, and she raises her fists up weakly. Jessamine’s heartbeat pauses before it twinges into a faster beat. Emily shakes her head at her and threatens, “Stay away from me!” 

Her face is thin and her skin is so sallow, but Jessamine can recognize the defiance and rebellion on her face. Emily slowly moves into the stance that Corvo taught her once upon a time ago, and Jessamine’s voice cracks as she breathes out, “Emily.” The way her voice shakes mangles the name, and she realizes too late that it sounds like a mess of breath instead of a coherent name.

Emily freezes, the terror still on her face, but familiarity breaks across her expression like a new dawn. “Mother?” she whispers incredulously. She steps forward, one foot after the other, and Jessamine can’t do anything but sink down to the floor. Emily’s hands cup her mask before clumsily undoing the straps of the mask. It falls to the floor and clangs against the floorboards, but Emily’s eyes open wide with shock when she sees her mother’s face.

Emily flings herself into Jessamine’s open arms and wails into her shoulder. Jessamine sobs openly as well, breathy and shuddering, as she holds her daughter close. She can feel the way Emily’s bones stick out too much from her body and how light she is. But it’s Emily, whole and safe. 

“They said that you were dead,” Emily chokes out as she clutches onto Jessamine. 

“I’m sorry,” Jessamine struggles to say. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t come sooner, I’m sorry.” 

“No, don’t be,” Emily says as she rubs her eyes with one hand. Jessamine strokes Emily’s back and thanks the Void, the Outsider, whatever deity or power that allowed Emily to survive. Emily ties the mask back on her face and says solemnly, “I think that it suits you, mother.”

She leads Emily carefully to the back and to the Wrenhaven where Samuel waits. Emily stays quiet when they sneak out, but the minute she gets on the skiff, she explains excitedly about her numerous escape attempts. Jessamine can’t stop looking at her daughter with amazement: both at the fact that Emily was bold enough to try and the fact that Emily was  _ alive _ .

Samuel prepares to depart, but just before he pushes off from the shore, Jessamine holds up a hand. She forgot the combination. With an exasperated sigh, she steps back onto the shore and hurries. Just before she reaches the distillery, she decides to take a detour to Bunting’s apartment and see what the man has in the safe. Slackjaw wouldn’t want the safe for nothing. 

She literally sprints and blinks across the street. All of the guards that she choked and tranquilized wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. When she blinks right up to the apartment balcony, she sneaks into the rooms with ease. Thugs are already there though. She only shakes her head and moves around with more care. She chokes a few of them out though. They only get in the way of things.

The Heart thrums in her pocket, and with its help, she scoops up a rune. She also finds a party invitation which she stuffs into her pocket without really thinking too much about it. She even finds three Sokolov paintings. Two of the paintings, she recognizes with ease. 

One is of Sokolov himself, and she had seen the royal physician for more than her fair share of times to recognize him easily. That’s the first one that she sees, and she briefly entertains the thought of bringing the portrait back to irritate Piero. The next one is of the Pendleton brothers. It’s entitled “Custis, Morgan, and the Postulate Child” and she sees the family resemblance. Treavor looks distinctly uncomfortable, and Jessamine wonders if Sokolov was mocking him by calling him the “Postulate Child.”

The final painting is one that she does not recognize though. She has to read the title of the painting before she realizes just who exactly it is. “Daud and the Parabola of Lost Seasons.”

Daud, the Knife of Dunwall. A name that is almost universally known in Dunwall, and a name that she holds with burning vengeance in her heart. Sokolov depicted him as almost a somber man, melancholy even, and he wears blue in the painting instead of the blood-red that Jessamine saw at the gazebo. She stares down at her own coat and wrinkles her nose when she finds that it’s the exact same shade of Karnacan blue as Daud in the painting. 

The parabola of lost seasons? What seasons had Daud lost? Or was in reference to the seasons upon seasons that Daud took from other people? How many seasons would Corvo lived had Daud not been there? How many seasons would others live if Daud did not carry out his work? How many lost seasons did the assassin carry around with him? How many has he stolen? Jessamine purses her lips as she contemplates the answer. 

The number of seasons would approach infinity as the parabola stretched up impossibly higher.

She tears down the painting with brutal, harsh gestures. However, when she turns to set it alight or tear apart with rats, she pauses. Jessamine doubts that she could recognize the Knife of Dunwall that easily. Even at the gazebo, she only caught the briefest flash of his face before she fell over the edge. With resentment growing in the back of her throat, she keeps the painting along with the others. It would serve its own use. 

Jessamine doesn’t bother with the safe since more and more robbers and thugs are pouring into the apartment to replace the ones that she had choked. She retreats back to the balcony and leaps off the edge, heedless of anyone around her, and blinks out of sight.

She has a daughter to return to.


	11. the ties of a family

Jessamine makes her way back to the boat, stumbling and blinking through shadows erratically. It’s not safe to move this quickly and this brazenly,  _ she knows _ , but her feet move faster than her mind bids them to. It’s that same sense of thrumming urgency that kept her going for this long. Emily waits for her in Samuel’s skiff, and Jessamine does not know how long it will take before the Overseers or the city guards catch a glimpse of it. And besides, Jessamine has kept Emily waiting  _ long enough _ .

A rasp of utter relief crawls its way out of her throat when she sees Emily safe and sound. Her daughter is already deep in conversation with Samuel, but the slightest scrape of Jessamine’s boots makes her jump and jerk her gaze over to the source of the sound with wariness. It unnerves Jessamine to see her daughter so scared, but what unnerves more is the pure look of trapped desperation on Emily’s face. Jessamine knows that look too well, the look that people get when they have no other resort to turn to except for violence.  Thankfully, the fear and danger melts away in Emily’s expression, and her face splits into a bright smile that puts a smile on Jessamine’s face as well. Samuel glances up and gestures to the skiff quickly; Jessamine has to board quickly so that they can depart without any more time to waste.

They float along the Wrenhaven, and Jessamine revels in the sound of Emily’s hushed voice and breathy whispers of delight. However, her blood runs red-hot when Emily describes what she’s been through. 

_ “It’s okay. I’ve heard a lot of grown-up business at the Golden Cat.” _

She wonders if she should have just stabbed the Pendletons when she had the chance. Jessamine glances behind her at the horizon and gazes at the distant watchtower that grows smaller and smaller as the skiff goes further away from it. Decisively, she turns back to Emily and decides that whatever Slackjaw has in store will be enough vengeance for her. The man probably had brighter and more tortuous ideas than she could. 

She cups her daughter’s face, feeling how the cheekbones jut too far out and how thin the skin feels. Even under her gloves, she can tell that it’s not healthy. 

“Why are you wearing that mask, Mother?” Emily asks plaintively. “And the gloves? You never liked wearing gloves before.”

Emily was right; Jessamine never did like wearing them.

Jessamine pulls away from Emily to look down at her gloves. She flexes her hand into a fist and tries to ignore the way the Mark feels: like cold fire burning. With a sigh, she shuts her eyes and searches for a way to explain. “I don’t want to get my hands dirty,” she finally decides on saying. “And it’s not safe. Think about the rats. I don’t want them to bite me or get on my hands.”

Emily cocks her head to the side and examines Jessamine. The mask is still on Jessamine’s face, and for once, in a very very long time, she feels hyper-aware of it. Emily doesn’t seem scared of the mask anymore, but Jessamine is still concerned. The worries that come from being a mother and the worries that come from being an empress. Both weigh too heavy on her shoulders, and Jessamine swears that it feels like some have slipped from her shoulders down to Emily’s. 

And she cannot tolerate that.

“I guess that makes sense,” Emily says unwillingly. “But the mask. Why the mask?”

“It’s so that the Regent’s people won’t find her,” Samuel suddenly says. “It’s keeping her safe.”

“Really?” Emily says with a spark of interest. “Can I have one too?”

Jessamine shakes her head. “No, I’ve found a safe place for you. A place for you to stay while we handle things.”

Emily’s eyes harden and she says, “The spymaster. Hiram Burrows. He’s not going to be regent for very long, is he, Mother? We’re going to get the throne back, won’t we?” 

The anger in Emily’s expression startles Jessamine, but she nods. “We will,” she affirms, her tone low and her eyes sparking. Emily nods as well and says with a terrifyingly vindictive tone, “ _ Good.” _

They dock at the Hound Pits Pub, and Cecelia, Callista, Lydia, and Wallace are all there to greet Emily. Callista offers to tutor Emily in the time that passes in this interregnum, and Jessamine gratefully accepts. Meanwhile, Emily dominates everyone else’s attention as she is apt to do. Jessamine wryly smiles when she sees that familiar grin and giggle, but that quickly turns to alarm when Emily swoons a little. 

“Emily!” she cries out as she hurries over to her daughter. Emily gives her a weak thumbs-up as she says, “Sorry, Mother, just got a little dizzy.” Jessamine shakes her head and looks up at Callista. “Can you get her something to eat? Get her lying down and bring her some water, please,” she directs, crisp and clear. Callista nods and escorts Emily up to her room.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jessamine can see Havelock. She straightens up and sets her shoulders as she inclines her head. “Havelock,” she greets him.

“Well done, your Imperial Highness,” he says in response. He genuinely looks surprised to see that she’s in one piece and the same for Emily. “You do not fail to impress. Now our own Lord Pendleton can assume their votes in Parliament.” He chuckles slightly before he continues, “You’ve done more in one day than most men do in their lifetimes.”

“But I am not ‘most men’, Admiral,” Jessamine pointedly replies.

He blinks before he concedes, “That, you are not, your Imperial Highness. I came to inform you that Lord Pendleton wishes to speak with you.”

“Alright, thank you, Admiral,” Jessamine says before she starts striding towards the tower.

What would Pendleton want with her? Retribution for his brothers? An explanation for what she had done, even when  _ he _ was the one to bring the idea to her?

She finds him, looking weary and worn, and he turns around to look at her and sigh. “The Loyalist Conspiracy thanks you for your work, Empress Kaldwin, but I don’t know if I can,” he confesses. “My own brothers… We never believed that you would be able to do this much. The best chance we had at obtaining the throne back was with Emily, and with you alive, it makes our prospects more promising.”

“And?” she prompts him. She needs to know if this is going somewhere.

“My brothers were never kind,” he continues in his halting manner. “But they were my brothers regardless.”

Jessamine can’t help but arch an eyebrow, and she personally finds it a pity that he can’t see it. She sighs and says, “I didn’t kill them though. I only sleep-darted them. Their lives are in other people’s hands now. But I am not their killer nor will I ever be.”

Pendleton takes a step away from her, and he stutters, “R-really? T-thank you, Empress.”

She nods and turns on her heel to walk away. It is not her place to take more family away from family, but she was sorely tempted to. She considers her decisions and wonders if she didn’t kill for such a noble reason like that or something more selfish. Granted, she didn’t want to discover Emily while she was still covered in blood or something along those lines, and she didn’t want to leave a trail of blood behind her. But then, she remembers the portrait. As she turned back, she calls out, “Lord Pendleton! I believe I have something that belongs to you.” WIthout further ado, she pulls out the portrait and deposits it in his barely-waiting hands. She wryly says, “I felt like it belonged to you more than the person that I found it with.”

With that, she leaves without waiting for Treavor’s reply.

Jessamine spots Havelock waiting for her, but she holds up a hand to stop him from talking. “I plan to check in with my daughter at the tower,” she informs him. “I will be back within moments. Do wait a little longer, Admiral.” She sweeps past him and ignores his sputtering. Void knows that she’s been doing more than enough work for the man already. He can take the time to wait a little.

She climbs the stairs up to Emily’s room, and when she arrives there, Callista’s there with a tray of food. Emily is sitting on the bed, kicking her heels against the old mattress, but she’s eating. Callista tries to get her to eat slowly, but Emily eats fiercely, ravenously. How long and how much did they starve her for? Jessamine tamps the spurt of rage down and deliberately makes a sound as she enters the room. Callista glances back to see her and immediately sets down the spoon.

“Your Imperial Highness,” she says as she dips into a curtsy. “I’ll give you two some privacy.” With that, she leaves both mother and daughter alone.

Emily looks up at her, face pale and eyes round. Jessamine blinks, not knowing what could have transpired to cause such an expression until Emily says flatly, “Corvo’s dead, isn’t he?”

Jessamine’s throat locks up and she sinks down to her knees in front of Emily. She places her gloved hands on her daughter’s knees and casts her gaze down as she admits oh so painfully, “Yes, Emily. Corvo’s… Corvo’s dead.”

Emily breathes in sharply before saying softly, “I didn’t see him. Another assassin blocked my view. I was hoping that he was still alive. Hurt but alive. I thought… I thought that Corvo would make it.” Her voice cracks as tears start to stream slowly down her cheeks. “T-the people at the Golden Cat told me, they told me that both you and Corvo were dead. When I saw you, I… I hoped that he was still alive too.”

Jessamine doesn’t know what to say, but she holds her daughter’s hands tightly. Emily starts shaking as small sobs tear their way out of her mouth. That’s how they stay for a moment, sharing their grief and immense loss.

“I miss him,” Emily chokes out.

“I miss him too,” Jessamine confesses.

Emily sucks in a gusting breath, and she pries her hands out of her mother’s grip. Jessamine looks up at her to see her wiping off the tears from her face. Her small hands reach up to her face, and Jessamine can hear and feel the mask hissing open with its small clicks. Then, with slow, deliberate motions, Emily reaches to tug off her mother’s gloves. A jolt of alarm and fear surges in her chest, but she watches as Emily tugs one glove off her unmarked hand. Emily turns her mother’s hand over, examining the new calluses on her mother’s hand. But before Emily can take off the other glove, Jessamine lays her bare hand over Emily’s.

“You don’t want to pull it off,” she warns.

Emily looks into her mother’s eyes and asks, “Why?”

Jessamine shakes her head and repeats, “You don’t want to pull it off.”

Emily squints at her, and although Jessamine  _ wants _ to believe that Emily knows nothing, she also knows that her daughter has always been precocious, always been perceptive. This makes her worry whether or not Emily knows or even suspects the truth.  _ Impossible _ , she thinks to herself, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Emily ever connected the dots.

Her daughter sighs and lays her other hand on top of Jessamine’s bare hand. Her hand is too cold, but Emily tightens her grip on her mother’s hand and whispers, “Stay safe, mother. I… I don’t want to lose you too.”

Jessamine’s eyes water and she pulls her daughter into a tight embrace. “I won’t,” she promises fervently. “We’ll make it through this, I promise.”

Emily pulls back and examines Jessamine’s face closely, her eyes tracking the new lines in her mother’s face. “Are you doing Corvo’s job now?” she wonders. 

Jessamine hesitates, but that’s enough to answer Emily’s question. Emily hangs her head down and mumbles, “I don’t want you to. I don’t want you to be in danger.”

“But I must,” Jessamine soothes. “I have practiced, I have trained, I know what I’m doing, Emily.”

What a lie. She’s never really known what she was doing. Not truly. Events have simply folded out the way they have, and she has been relying solely on that. That and the Mark from the Void and the Outsider’s hands.

“Promise me that you’ll stay safe?” Emily asks plaintively. She holds up her pinky finger and waits, eyes wide and still brimming with tears. Jessamine shakily exhales and clasps her bare finger with Emily’s as she nods.

With that, she stands up and says softly, “I have to leave, Emily. Please listen to Callista while I’m gone. I’ll try to make it back as soon as possible, I promise.” The sun is starting to fade, so the dim afternoon light makes her shadow stretch further than it should. Jessamine casts a quick gaze at it before jerking her gaze back over to her daughter; she thinks that her hand’s shadow is more warped than it should be. Emily sighs and reaches over for the spoon.

“You promised,” she says. “Come back soon.”

“I promised,” Jessamine tries to smile. She thinks it falls short though. Emily beckons to her, and Jessamine bends down again as Emily latches the mask back onto her face. It's cold as usual, but the places where Emily kept her hands are soothingly warm now. Without another word, Jessamine departs the room. She shoves her hands in her pockets, forgetting that the Heart was there, and almost makes a startled sound when she hears its familiar whisper.

_“She sees more than she is telling,”_ it says sadly. _“Poor Lady Emily! Her childhood is lost! She has become a pawn in the games of men!”_

“Not if I can help it,” Jessamine bites back, determination stretched tight once more, tight like the last remaining tie of family that she draws closer to her. She doesn’t know what Havelock has in store next, but she will do it. For the sake of her daughter, for the sake of her kingdom, for the sake of Corvo, for her  _ own _ sake, she will do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof sorry abt the late chapter ;; idk how long it'll be until the next chapter? i've got exams coming up in a few weeks so i'll be focusing on that in the meantime. i'll do my best to continue writing though!


	12. shrouded stars

They want the doctor.

Sokolov, to be specific. As if there was any other doctor. 

Jessamine curls her fingers around the handle of her mug as she listens to Martin and Havelock drone on about why Sokolov was necessary to the plan. The sun has now fully set, and the flickering light of the oil lamps casts shadows that shiver and shake along the edges. Because of the dimming light and the need for privacy, Havelock led her to their usual nook in the pub to have a “chat."  Instead of looking at either Martin or Havelock, she stares at the water in her mug. She doesn’t bother to take off her mask to drink it, and she thinks that her refusal to take it off also bothers Havelock.  _ A win for me _ , she supposes dryly. 

Apparently, they want to target Hiram’s mistress. Jessamine’s lips thin behind her mask. She had heard rumors about Hiram’s mistress at court, but she never quite bothered to learn her name. Men always drifted around women like flies and moved on to the next womanly body as soon as a curvier and lovelier one passed by. There was never enough need for her to pry more into her spymaster’s private life. After all, he kept his distance from hers and so, she gave him the same courtesy. A mistake and a foolish assumption on her part. Jessamine trawls through her old memories, vainly trying to remember the blasted woman’s name before she gives up. 

“Luckily, we’ve been able to keep the Abbey on a tight leash,” Martin says, and Jessamine places her attention back on the conversation. “The elimination of High Overseer Campbell really was the key to the Abbey.” 

Jessamine’s gaze slides up to Martin whose expression remains unreadable and resolutely affable. She knows that the black book still remains in her room, and she also knows thatTeague Martin still frequents the pub whenever he can. Her anger at such an intrusion of privacy still smolders, dim and dark, but if this means that the plans and plots of the Loyalists continue forward, so be it.  _ Does Havelock know about the book?  _ she muses.  _ Perhaps, perhaps not. It does not matter now. Martin will continue to use and abuse it for his own gains no matter what I do. If it benefits me now, then let it rest. _

The Heart, still in her pocket, whispers,  _ “There are few brave enough to laugh in the Outsider’s face, but Teague Martin is one.” _

Jessamine almost snorts to herself. What does that make her, she who scorned the actual Outsider himself? 

She sighs and says with finality, “You want Sokolov? I’ll bring him.” Without another word, she stands up and pads silently away despite the creaking floorboards. She can’t help but smile to herself when she realizes that; her training taught her well. The air under her mask seems stifling — a rare occasion — and she steps outside into the cool night. Jessamine tips her head up and sucks in a fresh breath of air.  The smoke and excess light from homes and buildings keeps the stars shrouded, but Jessamine pretends that she can still see the stars. If she shuts her eyes long enough, she can summon up memories of the clear skies from when she used to sail to different islands. 

_ "Sokolov sees the Captain at the Helm and the Tusked Leviathan. What do you see in the stars?" _ the Heart suddenly asks.

This was long before the rat plague and when Corvo was still at her side, but Corvo used to point out the different constellations to her. Once, on a ship headed for Morley, Corvo told her what the Serkonan names for some of them were instead of their usual Gristolian names. 

Samuel clears his throat behind her.  “Are you ready to depart, your Imperial Highness?” he asks in his rasping voice. He holds a dimly flickering oil lamp aloft as he stands there behind her. The light of the pub outlines him in low light, and somehow, it makes him look older than he actually is.

Jessamine glances back and sighs, “It’s alright, Samuel, feel free to drop the niceties. After all, I am not currently the Empress of the Isles anymore.”

Samuel shakes his head violently, and the lamplight flickers harshly. “No,” he insists. “You’ll always be the Empress of the Isles, milady, no matter what any false regent might claim. That’s the reason why we’re all here, why we’re all doing this. It’s because we believe in  _ you _ .”

Jessamine pauses and searches through Samuel’s face. His eyes are bright and bold with belief, and her heart aches. Another reason for her to try even harder. She cannot afford to fail.

“Do you really want to go at this hour, your Highness?” Samuel asks. “It might be easier at sunset or twilight instead of complete night.”

Jessamine shakes her head. “No,” she replies. “If I must do this, I will do it now. Besides, it’s much easier to hide in the dark than it is to hide in light.”

Samuel nods and ambles over to the skiff. The waters of the Wrenhaven slosh up against the skiff, and the water looks inky-black in the shadows of the night. The lamp only makes the water gleam even more darkly, and Jessamine straightens her shoulders before she climbs into the skiff. He poles off and away from the shore, and Jessamine stares up at what she estimates to be Emily’s window. The light is still lit in that room, and she wonders what Emily will dream of tonight. She clenches her Marked hand and swears that neither the Outsider or the machinations of the Lord Regent will ever touch her daughter’s dreams again.

Kaldwin’s Bridge slowly comes into sight, and the floodlights lining the bridge are sharp and bright against the shadows. Jessamine squints her eyes, unused to such brightness, and Samuel lets out a long, sibilant hiss between his teeth. “I can’t drop you off at the north end, milady,” he says softly. “Too much light. I can’t pass the skiff through without alerting the guards. We’ll have to stop along the south end. Good luck, your Highness.”

“Thank you,” Jessamine says as she carefully steps back onto shore. The steadiness of land feels strange under her feet as it usually does after time on the Wrenhaven, but she gains her footing back quickly. She dodges guards and creeps along the shadows in her usual fashion. And also, in her usual fashion, she stuffs whatever she finds in her pockets: blueprints, coins, tools, everything. 

Drawbridge Way seems to be her best choice of location in the slow but steady race to the north end. She blinks across balconies and across streets with her fingers barely brushing the brick-and-mortar of the buildings, but as she moves, her mind drifts to Kaldwin’s Bridge. Her father’s bridge.

He commissioned it before she was born to replace another smaller and older bridge that was already there. He used to tell her stories about how the bridge was planned. Architects from all over the Isles gathered in Dunwall Tower to discuss the best arches, the best designs, everything from top to bottom, and he was there to preside over it. It was meant to be a homage to artists and a place for poets and lovers to gather. Later, when she came into her place on the throne, she had floodlights installed along the edges to fortify the Wrenhaven against potential attacks. Now that she’s responsible for sneaking along the entirety of it, she slightly regrets the new installments. But her heart turns when she thinks about how dark the bridge has become in recent times. No longer was it a place for lovers to stroll or vacationers to tour. Now, it was the place where desperate people went to die. Too many bodies were trawled out of the waters beneath the bridge, dead from jumping. Whether it be the panic or the sheer misery of the plague, they all came here to die by choice. Jessamine purses her lips behind the mask and launches herself forward.

She sees members of the City Guard and the Overseers bicker with each other. She sees weepers that shuffle and shamble with red tears down their cheeks. She sees the familiar flare of Void magic along bone charms and an Outsider shrine, and as always, the Heart stays in her pocket to whisper out secrets of the night into her waiting ear.

_ "I smell bones in the pylons, blood beneath the stone blocks. Men died building this structure,”  _ the Heart says softly. " _ Many seek the Bridge for solace. Ruined men, abandoned women, and plague victims have all leapt from here." _

“We will make sure that happens no longer,” Jessamine says out loud, perhaps in a vain attempt to assuage her own doubts and fears. “It won’t be a place of death no longer, but the place for poets like it was before.”

She sneaks along until she reaches Drawbridge Way and comes across a man named Pratchett. She’s seen the name too many times on a can of jellied eels to not recognize it. She keeps edging forward, and eventually, she has a sudden wild thought of whimsy. Why not climb the bridge itself? She’ll just have to disable arc pylons rather than choking out guard after guard. Bodies pile up but arc pylons won’t. Jessamine has to resist the giggle that bubbles up in her chest; never in her wildest dreams would she have expected this.  The climbing and disabling is slow, much slower than she originally expected, but the doctor won’t move from his apartment at all tonight. He must be working on some new painting or new experiment. Jessamine grits her teeth as she disables another pylon and finally, she reaches the top. She stares out at the dark Wrenhaven, at whatever is left of her precious city. Her heart thrums with a wild beat, and the Heart says, _ "Not so long ago Dunwall was a proud city." _

“It will be a proud city still,” Jessamine says. Her words fall out of her mouth and get carried away by the high winds that buffet around her, but she continues, “We will make it.” 

She still can’t see the stars, even from her vantage point which feels like at the top of the world, but she carries Corvo’s constellations in her heart. With that, she steels her resolve and continues on.

There is a cage with a  _ child _ in it, and Jessamine can’t stop herself from dropping down beside the cage and peering in. The boy jolts and cowers from her mask, but he quickly regains the shreds of his composure and tries to bargain for his freedom. Even though her entire body is aching from the effort of climbing and blinking and sneaking along the bridge, Jessamine shakes her head silently and places her index finger on where her lips would be behind the mask. The boy sinks down when he sees it, but she thinks that her intent was misunderstood. She squats down to fiddle with the cage, and before long, she manages to free the boy. He tries to get her to come along for some sort of prize, but she can’t waste any more time than this. She blinks away and continues on to Midway Substation. With one final effort, Jessamine blinks into an empty apartment along the substation and sinks down on the worn carpet. 

She sighs and uncorks a bottle of Sokolov’s Elixir. She had no sign of the plague and doubted that it could touch her with the fire of the Void at her fingertips, but the draught worked surprisingly well for restoring energy and health. A small smile curls her lips, and Jessamine lets out her stifled laugh. She can’t believe what she just did. She’s already at the north end, and all she has left is to breach Sokolov’s apartment. 

Sokolov’s mansion is just how she remembered it. Tall and dark and slightly foreboding. 

Jessamine sighs as she tries to remember the last time she was here. Honestly, she never frequented Sokolov’s mansion  _ personally _ . If there was anything that required medical attention, Sokolov always came to her and not the other way around. Even for portraits, he painted at the tower rather than anywhere else. She always viewed Sokolov as a great genius and a friend of sorts. He never liked the aristocracy, but he seemed to tolerate her. His ideas did much to shape her initial ideology on science and religion and the secrets of the vast, vast world.

She finds sleep darts to be her best friend as she stealthily creeps in through the halls. Occasionally, she blinks up to the walls and waits before moving on. Jessamine almost snorts to herself as she blinks up; it’s certainly an interesting design tactic, to have the walls not touch the ceilings, but it’s all to her own benefit.  As she wanders, she finds charms and coins and whatever else, but the thing that alarms her the most are the whispers that the Heart speaks to her. _ "The crushed minerals, the farm animals, the vials of liquid mysteries - all these and more are necessary for his experiments,” _ it says darkly.  _ “He cuts through the bodies of the dead for the sake of advancement, and for the sake of courting the Outsider’s attention.” _

Jessamine pauses, almost about to blink, but the statement catches her off-guard. That does not sound like the Anton Sokolov that she was familiar. He was always fascinated by physiology, and he was a great genius for sure. Dunwall owed much to his mad genius, and so, she let his lesser habits lie. Alcohol was nothing compared to the inventions that he made for the city, and she would always credit him for influencing and setting her on her path in her early days. But the Outsider? Half of her doesn’t want to admit it, but the secrets that the Outsider offers would be more than enticing for the man. But dead bodies and black magic? She must confirm this.

A sudden conversation nudges its way to the forefront of her mind, a conversation that she overheard. 

_ I was just wondering, if Sokolov is testing elixirs on people to cure the plague, why does he always ask for healthy people? _

Jessamine moves even faster through the mansion, dropping down like a half-living ghost to choke out the various maids and servants that shuffle through the halls. She tosses their bodies carelessly behind large bookshelves and couches to move even faster ahead. 

What she finds alarms her.

Sokolov, in his rooftop lab, mumbles and murmurs to himself about his newest test results, but across the room, Jessamine can see a woman cowering in a cage. Her blood boils and she doesn’t even bother to blink. Instead, she straightens up and walks towards Sokolov, footsteps clicking and creaking against the floor. Sokolov jolts up and sees her, eyes widening with shock and fear. Before he can scream, Jessamine grits out, “ _ What _ are you doing, Sokolov, to these  _ people _ .”

Her voice is tinny and the tone is garbled when the sound comes out of her mask, but something about it makes Sokolov freeze, mouth still agape and ready to scream. Jessamine strides right up to Sokolov and grabs him by the lapels, slightly shaking him as she does so. “Innocent people,” she hisses angrily. “Living people,  _ healthy _ people. Are these your precious test subjects? How many lives have you sacrificed and tested on for the sake of your research, Doctor Anton Sokolov?!”

“Who are you?” Sokolov sputters out, voice hoarse and weak. “Let go of me this instant, you ruffian!” His face twists into a grimace, but even Jessamine can catch the brief glint of familiarity in his eyes before it fades back into that initial fear. With a disgusted snort, Jessamine pushes Sokolov away from her and takes off her mask with a vicious tug. It clicks and whirs in her hand, almost aggressively so, when she pulls it off, but she shakes her head and glares at Sokolov straight in the eye.

“What. Have. You. Done,” Jessamine says, her voice cold and harsh with fury. Her eyes are even flintier, sharpened by the blade of betrayal that she feels. She believed him to be a trusted confidante once, a man who had shaped her education and her worldview with his talks and lectures of natural philosophy and rules of science. Now? A man who inflicted needless suffering on his test subjects? A man longing for black magic and the secrets of the Void from the hands of the Outsider? She does not know who she is facing anymore.

Sokolov’s face crumples the minute he sees her face. He takes another step away from her as he breathes out, “You, Jessamine, how? You were supposed to be  _ dead _ . They told me that you  _ died _ from your injuries.” He shakes his head and whispers, “The alcohol, it must be the alcohol. Hallucinations, finally, after so many years of drinking. I checked your health myself after the gazebo. So many bones fractured and broken… You could not have survived.” He looks up and squints at her legs, her arms, as he trails off, “How are you even walking?”

“Evidently, your informants were wrong,” Jessamine bites out in a clipped tone.

Sokolov looks at the mask in her hand and slowly says, “The Masked Felon, the Terror of Dunwall, the criminal that they say runs amok in Dunwall with a mask of death. That was you?” 

Jessamine nods and lifts the mask up to her face before putting it down again. “Answer my questions, Sokolov,” she orders. 

He wilts under her gaze and casts his eyes to the cage as he stumbles, “Necessity, risk, controlled variables, all needed for proper experimentation. You wanted a cure for the plague. The city needed a solution. I am providing that.”

“By using live and healthy subjects?” Jessamine exclaims. “The very people you are trying to help?”

“The sacrifice of few for the benefit of many!” he snaps back. “We will find the cure sooner thanks to their help.”

“And how many did you obtain proper consent for?” Jessamine asks coldly. “How many have you killed for the sake of advancement?”

Sokolov stops right there and lowers his gaze. His mouth moves, but his words are too soft for her to hear properly. “Say it louder,” she demands.

“Too many,” Sokolov bitterly replies. “Too many, your Imperial Highness.”

Jessamine lets out a shaky breath that she didn’t know she was holding back. She… admired Sokolov greatly. A great inventor, a great painter, a great philander, and a great teacher. Someone that she valued once upon a time. Now, she doesn’t know who she’s looking at.

“Who are you, Anton Sokolov?” she asks softly. “I no longer know who I am looking. I never would have thought that the Sokolov I knew would have done this.”  A dark and small part of her mind tells her,  _ yes, you could believe it because he is a man who values progress and the uncovering of scientific secrets far more than this. _ She hates herself for thinking this.

Sokolov cannot meet her eyes anymore, but Jessamine sucks in a breath and tries to regain her composure. Even though she is a far cry of what she used to be, she draws herself back up into her Empress stance and says firmly, “You will be coming with me, Anton Sokolov. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

Sokolov jerks his gaze up to her and asks, “For what? Where are you taking me?”

“You will give me your keys,” Jessamine continues. “And you will tell me where you are keeping each and every prisoner. You will then proceed quietly to the riverbank and dismiss every guard and servant you meet on the way. An associate will be waiting for you there, and I will meet you after I release your test subjects.” Jessamine pauses in and adds in a falsely delicate voice, “If you stray from my orders, I will… Be forced to use alternative methods.” With that, she puts the skull mask back on and draws her blade. 

Sokolov backs up, hands scrabbling at his belt for his keys, and says, “Yes, yes, your Highness.”

Jessamine keeps her blade up, waiting for a few precious seconds as he details the location of his prisoner pens and the combination as well as the uses of his keys. She almost doesn’t let him leave alone, but the Heart tells her, _ "In his dreams, he sees the names and faces of every subject he experimented on in the name of progress." _

The revelation soothes the hurt in her heart more than she would like, but it grants Sokolov enough of her shredded trust to let him leave unguarded. Without further ado, she leaps over to free the woman in the cage. She stares up at Jessamine, cheeks pale and gaunt, as she whispers, “Are you really the dead Empress?”

Jessamine nods but replies, “Keep this a secret. Don’t lose hope, just stay quiet and I’ll do my best. Are you alright?”

The woman nods fervently, “Thank you, your Highness,  _ thank you _ . The pain is still there, but I’ll wait here and rest for a bit before making my way out.”

“Stay safe,” Jessamine says before she strides out of the lab. She glances both ways, making sure that no one can see her before she blinks out of sight.

Jessamine has to bite her lip as she dials in the combination for the prisoner pen to prevent herself from retching or screaming at the pure injustice and cruelty of it. The bottles of Sokolov’s Elixir feel heavier in her pockets, and she wonders for how long she would have lived in petty, peaceful ignorance of Sokolov’s true experiments. She never thought to ask more beyond the results and the reports that he gave her via Hiram. All the prisoners stumble out and thank her, and Jessamine mutely nods. Once they leave, she blinks through space in an effort to get to the shore on time. She leaves behind dusty trails of wind and air with the speed of her blinks, and her Mark burns with the extra effort. 

When she reaches Samuel’s skiff, Sokolov is already there, quiet and waiting. Samuel lifts up the oil lamp and asks, “Everything good, milady?”

Jessamine nods as she climbs back into the swaying skiff, and Samuel pushes away from the shore. Her rage still flutters, hot and bright, under her skin, and she finds that she can’t look at Sokolov properly without feeling the urge to punch something. Half of her understands what he did,  _ why he did it _ , and that thought repulses her. As her hands barely shake, she reaches over and puts him in a Tyvian chokehold. He struggles and then falls limp, blissfully unconscious, along the bottom of the skiff.  Samuel looks at her, eyes round, but Jessamine only says, “It’s more of a danger if we leave him conscious. He might call out to some guards along the shore and get attention. This is safer.” Samuel nods, appeased with the answer, and continues along the river.

But Jessamine sits there in the skiff, underneath the completely dark sky and the shrouded stars, and she wonders,  _ what went so wrong? Why have we gotten to this point? _

She no longer knows how much faith she has in people anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this might be a while until my next chapter is posted, but as always, thank you for your patience and your support!


	13. a thrice-mirrored set

When the skiff lands by the Hounds Pits Pub, Jessamine stares down at Sokolov’s unconscious body and wonders if she made the right decision. She’ll have to drag his sorry body back to Havelock, and she doesn’t particularly  _ want _ to hoist him over her shoulder. She’s dragged unconscious bodies for short distances, so she figures that she might as well do it again. With a heavy sigh, Jessamine maneuvers Sokolov’s body and grunts as she heaves him up and over her shoulder. Samuel simply stares at her, mouth wide open at her show of strength, and Jessamine nods at him.

“Thank you, Samuel,” she says as she sways under the added weight. With another heave, she steps out of the boat and back on blessedly solid ground. Jessamine makes her way to the pub and doesn’t even bother to open the door properly. Instead, she boots it open with as much leftover strength as she can muster up.

Considering her level of physical fitness before the “incident” (as she calls the entire start of the interregnum), Jessamine considers this an overwhelming success. Havelock is already up and out of his seat with the same shocked expression like she saw on Samuel’s face. “Simply amazing,” he breathes as he rakes his eyes over the entire scene.

Jessamine does think that it must look a bit ridiculous. She’s not exactly buff or broad compared to others like Havelock, but she’s still standing under the Sokolov’s weight. She tosses his body in an empty booth, and the sudden motion must have been enough to stir him to consciousness. He groans, but Jessamine ignores that and taps her boot against the floorboard.

“I brought him back,” she says flatly. 

Havelock gestures to Sokolov and replies brusquely, “We need to restrain him or keep him unconscious before he screams and alerts the rest of the city. It isn’t easy to hide a dozen people, and he won’t make it any better.”

Jessamine arches an eyebrow before she remembers that she’s wearing the mask. Without a word, she pulls Sokolov into another Tyvian chokehold and waits until he slips back into unconsciousness. Havelock watches it all with an unreadable expression, but Jessamine thinks that he didn’t expect  _ this _ kind of a solution.

“We have a cage where we can keep him for now,” Havelock states. “We can interrogate him tomorrow.”

“Is a cage really necessary?” Jessamine asks. “Rope and a gag would serve the same purpose.” It's especially hypocritical after considering what she just saw in Sokolov's experiments. Havelock shoots her a look and so, Jessamine inclines her head. “Very well,” Jessamine tersely replies and leaves him to do it. She considers visiting Emily, but at this hour, Emily must already be fast asleep. So instead, she turns her steps back to her own room. As she ascends the stairs, she meets Martin. He’s walking back from the same direction that he’s heading, and judging from the look on his face, both of them know what he was doing.

“Good evening, your Imperial Highness,” he greets as he inclines his head. 

Jessamine lifts her chin a fraction of an inch as she replies coldly, “Good evening, Overseer Martin.”

Martin cannot see her eyes or the ways her lips purse, but the silence and the gleam of her mask under the light of his oil lamp is enough. He nods at her and passes by her without another word. Jessamine exhales before striding to her room.

At least the man had the decency to put everything back in their place after snooping around. At this point, she doesn’t know if it’s worth setting up her small hair trick on top of the black journal over and over again. However, at this point, it’s devolved into a point of petty pride, so Jessamine does it again.  
She only does the cursory wash and runs her fingers through her now-clean hair. She even scrubs the old bandage and hangs it up to dry. From there, she cleans off her weapons and wipes the sweat off her armor. She can’t wash her coat right now, but she tries to hang it up in order for it to air out overnight. The dark Karnacan blue is a familiar slash of color in the dim light of her bedroom lamp, and she misses Corvo again. With a sigh, Jessamine turns and slumps down on her old bed, praying for a dreamless night.

Of course, that doesn’t happen.

Instead, she opens her eyes to see the swirling depths of the Void, and she hisses out, “Of  _ course _ , not even a moment’s rest. Thank you for this  _ scintillating _ visit, Outsider.” The bellows of whalesong grow slightly louder, and she swears that she can feel a veritable note of amusement throughout the threads of magic that thrum in the Void.

The scene that it paints for her now is the street in front of the Royal Conservatory of Karnaca. Jessamine remembers coming here on the anniversary of her mother’s death with Corvo. She tips her head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the constellations that Corvo showed her, but she sees only darkness. The Heart sighs,  _ "There are no stars in the sky here. There is no sky." _

“It’s right,” a voice says behind her. “There aren’t any constellations for you to find.”

Jessamine evenly replies, “You can always make more yourself, whale god.” 

The Outsider circles around her and muses, “Perhaps.”

The scene shifts to Kaldwin’s Bridge, and Jessamine and the Outsider are back at the very top again. The Outsider gestures to the Wrenhaven and says, “Rivers change course over many lifetimes, and eventually all bridges tumble down. A thousand years ago there was another city on this spot. The people carved the bones of whales into runes and inscribed them with my Mark. Children still find them washed up in the river-mud.”

“Your runes drive people  _ mad _ ,” Jessamine sharply says. “I’ve seen how some survivors are driven insane by them. Nightmares, whispers that find them from the Void.”

The Outsider shrugs and comments, “Anton Sokolov has made a great study of my runes, but he's not special like you are. He wasn't chosen and he doesn't wear my Mark, so he can't unlock their secrets.” He snorts before he continues, “Sokolov believes there are specific words and acts that can compel me to appear before him. He searches old temples in Pandyssia and ruined sub-basements in the Flooded District. He performs disgusting rituals beneath the old Abbey.”

“And do they work?” Jessamine inquires.

The Outsider shakes his head. “If he really wants to meet me, he could start by being a bit more interesting.”

“Such high standards,” Jessamine dryly says.

“But you have met them,” he counters. He turns his gaze on her and laughs, but the mirth doesn’t reach his otter-black eyes. 

Jessamine shudders at the statement and says, “That doesn’t make me feel particularly proud or happy.”

The Outsider laughs again at that. “Your complete derision is amusing, yes, but the fact that you choose a higher moral path rather than killing is more intriguing.”

“Ah, yes,” Jessamine says as she rolls her eyes. “It would be a shame if the blood stained my coat, you see.”

“Why didn’t you kill the Pendleton brothers? Why didn’t you kill the High Overseer?” the Outsider wonders out loud. “So many reasons to kill and you don’t.”

“I feel like we circle back around to this topic so many times,” Jessamine counters. “Do you not have a different topic to start conversations with?”

“Centuries of knowledge and history rarely make good conversations,” he replies just as evenly. “Old and dead things gather dust, and most of the years are monotonous. This is one of the few times that anything ever really changes. Isn't that more interesting than anything else in the world?”

Jessamine sighs and runs a hand through her loose hair. “Well,” she starts off. “Shouldn’t you already know why? Omniscience and all that, whale god.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But I would like to know what you have to  _ say _ about it.”

“Curious, aren’t you,” she grumbles. In a way, the Outsider reminds her of a child. Curious and incorrigible through and through, just like how Emily was when she was six. Her daughter still kept that insatiable spark of curiosity, but she was more well-behaved than her early years. Also, she thinks that her daughter’s morals are far, far,  _ far _ beyond that of the Outsider’s. The Outsider’s lips curl into a smile, and she wonders if he knew what she just thought. She lifts her chin just a fraction of an inch more as she says flatly, “There isn’t any point to killing. The guards, Overseers, the citizens of  _ my city _ , they’re all scared and terrified of the rat plague. There are good people in this city, Outsider, and I will not be the one to murder them.”

“But the ones that you left alive, the High Overseer, the Pendleton brothers,” he prompts her. He slowly begins to circle around her, but Jessamine resolutely stands still and stares straightforward. She will not entertain the Outsider any more than this. “All of those who you left alive were the ones exploiting your precious people. The Heart can tell you that much,” he says lightly. “You’re not doing your people a favor.”

“But they are out of the picture,” Jessamine says. “They will no longer be able to hurt innocents, and their removal is without bloodshed which leaves less chaos in the city.” Her hands begin to move as she gains traction in her thoughts, and her voice grows stronger as she insists, “A small action can cause great effects. Like a butterfly grazing the surface of a pond, a small action can ripple out and cause great effects. I do not wish to sow more chaos into my city, my country, my  _ empire _ . That is not what an empress does.”

“Ah,” the Outsider nods. “And that is your perspective on the entire matter. An interesting idea, so like and unlike the last empress who was in this place.”

“Another empress?” Jessamine echoes. “Who else would ever step into this place?”

“You would be surprised, Empress,” he cryptically replies. “Many who thirst for power would pay many lives and coin to even have a taste, a fraction, of the Void.”

“And do you grant all those requests?” she asks in response.

He looks almost affronted at the question and says stiffly, “Of course not. I am not a fool, Empress Jessamine.”

Jessamine laughs aloud at that and replies lightly, “Of course you think you aren’t.” With a sigh, she turns around and starts climbing down the bridge. The scenery around her melts away to reveal the gazebo, and Jessamine physically recoils when she sees Corvo’s body. 

_ IT’S YOUR FAULT IT’S YOUR FAULT IT’S YOUR FAULT IT’S YOUR FAULT _

Jessamine whirls around and glares at the Outsider with eyes as sharp as daggers. “How  _ dare _ you,” she snarls, her voice low and dark.

The Outsider shrugs, “For the most part, the Void does what it wants. Perhaps it’s  _ your _ influence that’s making this. Perhaps it’s the whales. Perhaps it’s an unsettled spirit. It could be caused by many things.”

Jessamine lets out a shaky sigh, and she says tiredly, “Then let me leave this place. I believe that we have had enough of each other’s company, no?” 

“Are you sure?” the Outsider asks tauntingly.

Jessamine pastes on a demure smile, so easy from years of practice, and insists in a genteel tone, “I’m quite sure. Thank you for your time and your input, Outsider, but I believe I’ll have to take my leave here.”

“So be it,” he nods and with a gentle fade and bellow of whale song, the gazebo begins to fade around her. Jessamine opens her eyes and thinks that this end to a Void vision has been much more gentle than some others. Other times, it felt like she was jolting away with a thousand currents of electricity in her veins or falling off a building with air buffeting around her. 

She sighs and stares at the ceiling: still night. It would be hours until daylight again, and she can’t fall asleep again. She tosses and turns in her bed before giving up and easing out of her bed. She rummages through her things for a journal, and she finds a beat-up and battered one that she was planning on selling off. After turning it over and over in her hands, she thinks that it might be worth journaling. After all, she used to do it with her audiograph. Why not now?

After digging for a pen, Jessamine settles down in her bed and starts writing, the words flowing off her pen as easily as she used to speak to her audiograph. There were simply too many words, too many questions, that she had left unanswered. She also jotted down a side note in the margin; she had to burn the journal as soon as her time with the Loyalists was up. Any man would take the opportunity to alert the Abbey of treason: consorting with the Outsider and utilizing his magic. She flexes her hand just to feel the Marked skin move, and she shudders slightly. The heady sense of power still lingers in the palm of her hand. Still, she writes until the light rays of dawn start trickling through her window and into her room.

The saddening truth is that Jessamine largely learned about the plight of her people via the reports that she got from others and the glimpses that she saw from the windows of her iron-clad carriage. She never saw the true horror of corruption and bureaucracy, and she never saw the way her own people withered away under the pressures of the rich and the plague up close and personal. Her own ignorance led to her own downfall, and she writes each and every detail that she found in her journal. The corruption of the Abbey, the political machinations of the nobles, the sex trafficking in the Golden Cat, and now, the human experimentation that had proceeded with her own explicit and ignorant permission. Jessamine shakes her head with regret, but she promises to do better. She  _ will _ do better for her people and for her empire. If this is the state of Dunwall, then what will be the state of other cities and isles within her domain? Her empire needed reforms, and as tempting as it is to just kill the problems in her way, Jessamine inherently knows that will not solve the problem. Like she told the Outsider, she knows that sowing more chaos into her city will not do anything. 

She finally finishes her long entry, and although she finds herself with yet more more words to write, she forces herself to stand up and stretch out the kinks in her muscles. She sets her journal at the very bottom of her personal trunk, and she sets Campbell’s notebook higher up in the stacks of items than she normally does. Hopefully, Martin keeps his curiosity focused on Campbell’s notebook alone. Also, her own journal was in the trunk before (albeit blank), so Martin may not even bother looking through it.

Out of habit, she slides her mask on as she slips out of her door and makes her way downstairs to the place where Havelock was supposed to keep Sokolov. But when she arrives, she finds Sokolov trapped in a cage with Havelock looming over him with a crate of rats and threats on his lips. She wastes no time in striding over and physically pushing Havelock out of the way. He lets out a surprised yelp and drops the crate of rats, but a silent twist of Jessamine’s left hand sends them scurrying away. She turns on Havelock, and in a low, harsh tone, she barks out, “I thought we were to question him,  _ not _ threaten him.”

“With all due respect, your Imperial Highness,” Havelock says with all the manner of a man who means no respect at all. “He was uncooperative and required further motivation to speak.”

“And you never thought about consulting me or any other person in this entire pub?” Jessamine counters. 

Havelock stiffens and starts blistering, “I have had more experience with prisoners and interrogations than anyone else here,  _ your Highness _ .”

Jessamine gives him a withering glare as she says in a dangerously soft tone, “I am not a stranger to interrogation,  _ Admiral _ .” Without sparing another word, she whirls around and takes clipped steps to face Sokolov in the eyes. The hypocrisy isn’t lost on her as she stares at him through the bars, and she says, “Doctor Anton Sokolov.”

The doctor inclines his head and merely says, “Empress.”

“Not at the moment, I’m afraid,” Jessamine says briskly. “Our dear friend Hiram seems to think differently, but I assume our friendship stays the same.” She pauses for a moment, and when the pause grows a beat too long, she hums, “Or is that contested as well? Another betrayal, another murder?”

Sokolov’s eyes grow hard and dark as he insists, “No! Never. I am  _ not _ like that sniveling idiot on the throne. You still are the Empress of the Isles.”

“Then, if that is so, you will answer my questions,” Jessamine concedes. Sokolov opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but Jessamine lifts up a single finger and says in a hard, bitter tone, “Should I remind you of your little experiments? I believe you used cages such as these as well. I have seen many things within your mansion, Doctor, and I am not pleased with any of my observations. Please, let us make this process easier on both of us.” 

Sokolov sighs heavily, wearily, and when he looks up to meet her eyes, Jessamine sees the aching pain and exhaustion in his pale Tyvian eyes. She relents and pulls her mask off. It clicks and whirs in her hands for only a moment before it settles down into quiet, and she says softly, “Leave us alone, Havelock.”

“But—,” he says sharply, almost spitting the word out.

“Do not make me repeat what I just said,” Jessamine snaps with more venom than she intends. She’s shocked at herself. Not even during her hardest days with Parliament had she ever used that much vitriol in a single tone. Perhaps with the Outsider, but never to a living person in her reality and time. Jessamine doesn’t bother turning around, but she hears the reluctant scuffling of Havelock’s feet as he leaves her alone. 

Sokolov raises an eyebrow and says, “ _ Pah _ . You’ve gotten sharper since the last time I saw you, Empress.”

“The last time you saw me, I was lying in bed with most of my bones broken,” Jessamine replies dryly. “I’d say that there were more sharper ends in me at that point than now.”

“Snapped bone is sharp and can be made into something more,” Sokolov agrees. “Although the most I’ve ever done with that is whalebone.”

“And what have you done?” Jessamine challenges. She folds her hands neatly together, the mask still in her left hand’s grip, and she pulls her shoulders back so that they’re perfectly aligned with her ramrod-straight back. The stance of an Empress. It feels strange on her shoulders now that she’s spent this many months in the crouch and bent stance of an assassin. Like a spring, ready to pop at any moment, versus the rigidity and formality of a throne and the weight of its crown. 

“I have done many things,” he sighs. “But I suspect you wish to know more about my experiments.” Jessamine merely arches an eyebrow, and Sokolov groans, “Advancements, new developments, all for the sake of a singular cure. The plague had already taken so many. A few lives more for the greater good was a small price to pay.” Jessamine grits her teeth but forces herself to listen on as he continues, “Ingredients were running, controlled variables in the experiments were fraying thin, and the _ Lord Regent _ demanded more elixir day by day as he worked in that tower.” Sokolov makes a face as he says, “He is too scared of what lies in the city that he claimed as his own. A sham of a regent, he is. I had my own suspicions about him, but what could I do? The city lies sick and rotting with plague, and I was forced to do what I could.”

“No, you were not,” Jessamine hisses. “There were sickened people by the dozens. You added your own fair share to that.” She’s seen the devastation for herself, in person and not from her tower. The tears, the misery, the dirt and the slums. The shuddering steps of the Tallboys, the shrill sobs of the weepers, the undercurrent of fear that flows more rapidly than the scurrying steps of the rats beneath the cobblestones, all this and more in  _ her _ city, not Hiram’s. Jessamine clears her throat and says in a dangerous tone, “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Anton?”

Sokolov stares at her for the longest time, and the space between them fills with silence. Then, with a creak in his voice that speaks more than words ever could, Sokolov replies, “No, Empress. I do not.” 

She examines his face for any sign of lies or falsehoods, but the look on his face and the whisper of the Heart in her pocket tell her that he is genuine. “If I ask you to start your experiments again,” Jessamine carefully asks. “Will you repeat your steps?”

Sokolov stares at the iron bars instead of her, and Jessamine watches as his eyes drift out of focus. Then, with the keen edge that she always knew them to be, Sokolov’s eyes glint as he says, “No. It will be better this time.”

“I trust that your ‘better’ will be my ‘better’ as well then, doctor,” Jessamine says lightly. The rage in her heart still burns, but it has become more of a smolder. And of course, she must remind herself that this is  _ Hiram’s _ work and not her own. Sokolov is merely another piece of the puzzle that must have been swept up in all the madness. There is only one thing that she has left to ask Sokolov before she moves on to business. “And tell me, doctor,” she begins. “What was your diagnosis at the very beginning of all of this?”

Sokolov eyes her as if she was another one of his specimens, but Jessamine stays rigidly still. He shuts his eyes before describing, “I had you marked for dead. If not dead, then permanently crippled. The fall dealt severe blows to your vertebrae as well as your ribs. I suspected that a lung may have been punctured from one of the broken ribs. Multiple fractures in other bones, major breaks in at least one wrist.” He opens his eyes again before finishing, “By all scientific accounts, you should not be alive or moving, Empress.” The expression on his face sours as he says, “Death would have been a better alternative than survival at that point. They tolled the funeral bells for you the day I left your room. The funeral was a large affair.”

“I know,” Jessamine remembered. “I heard them as I left the vicinity.”

Sokolov’s gaze drifts from her face to her ribs and then to her wrists.  _ The major breaks _ , she thinks.  _ Better keep him off the subject now before he starts asking too much, especially with his more… Esoteric pursuits _ .

“Very well then,” she brusquely announces. “Then, we shall move on. A final question, Anton. Who is Hiram’s mistress?”

Sokolov blinks and looks absolutely jarred. Jessamine narrows her eyes and challenges, “There was a painting in your house, doctor.”

“I have painted many people,” he doubtfully says, but Jessamine holds her hand up and waits until he reluctantly subsides. “A woman, dressed in white, painted from behind. Coiffed blonde hair, a noblewoman with more power than suspected. Does that sound about right?”

If Jessamine’s memory serves her right, then her hypothesis should be correct.

“The Lady Boyle,” she finishes. “Am I correct, Doctor Anton Sokolov?”

“You are,” he concedes. “Excellent analysis, but I’m afraid I don’t know which one. Finest hindquarters in all of Dunwall, however.”

Jessamine lets out a huff of air: the one thing she allows to break her mask of an Empress. 

The Lady Boyle were a trio of sisters, almost copies of one another, with carefully coiffed hair of gold and eyes that gleamed like coins in the dark. Esma, Lydia, and Waverly were their names. Frankly, Jessamine only came across them at parties and various occasions. They were never one to involve themselves heavily at the Tower. All the nobility came to  _ them _ instead of the other way around, and despite her status as the Empress, they only gave her the most perfunctory amount of time afforded to a ruler. Other than that, she was treated as any other: another piece on the chessboard. If not a royal decree or particular occasion, Jessamine was expected to come to them just as much as anyone else. For that, Jessamine was grateful for it meant that she could divert her attention to other and more pressing matters of government rather than entertaining their whims along with the rest of the miserable lot at court and Parliament. Jessamine remembers that she could not distinguish them apart at first, and sometimes, she still cannot differentiate them. They are mirrors of each other with only the slightest shades of difference between. Beautiful and false, just how they like it. Many men do not realize their power until it is too late. Now, one walks the thin line between treason and power. Jessamine wonders if that sister knows it. She probably does. She probably chose to do it and manufactured her own manipulations to guide her along.

“Thank you,” Jessamine says as she inclines her head. She steps over to the door of the cage and finds the lock. With a disgusted sniff, she pulls out a stray bit of wire from her pocket and goes to work on the lock. She can feel Sokolov watching by the way the hair on the back of her neck seems to stand up ever so slightly, and she smiles with satisfaction when the lock springs open in her hand. She straightens up and pockets the lock before she opens the door. With a slight gesture, Jessamine motions to the pub.

“We also have a scientist,” she casually says. “A man by the name of Piero.” Sokolov gives her a withering glare that is exactly like the look Piero gets in his eyes whenever the subject of  _ Sokolov _ comes up. “You may work with him on his personal spin on the elixir. Piero’s Spiritual Remedy is what I believe it is called. Perhaps you may have additional ideas to add to your own mixture.” Although there’s a casual air to her words, the undercurrent of iron emphasizes what is unsaid; this is not a request but rather a demand. Jessamine lets out a soft, light laugh as she mentions, “I believe he has a bottle of King Street brandy lying about somewhere if you do not have enough incentive.”

She turns on her heel and leaves Sokolov alone. Part of her tells her that she should escort Sokolov to Piero with one hand on her blade’s handle, but the other part of her, perhaps her of the past, tells her that it is safe to leave him alone. The burden of guilt and her own existence would keep him in check long enough. Her expression mars slightly as the corners of her lips pinch; she’ll have to inform an irritated Havelock of Sokolov's information now. Now  _ that _ is a prospect that she does not want to begin right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ta-da! new chapter~ let me know what you thought about it in the comments! <3


	14. an interlude

Jessamine sighs as she hangs up Emily’s clothes to dry. She volunteered to help Cecelia with the washing and laundry, and although Cecelia has gone to sweep the floors, she still has clothes left to hang. Havelock’s large coat hangs from the line as well in addition to some of Callista’s blouses and Piero’s pants. All she has left is her own clothes and Emily’s. Of course, she decided to start with Emily’s first, and she’s almost done. The only ones left of Emily’s is her formerly-bright white outfit from the days of the incident. The monsters at the Golden Cat never bothered to furnish her with other clothes, and despite how many times Callista tried to bleach it, it never returned back to its former color. Jessamine thinks that there must be a metaphor somewhere in that alone, but she doesn’t waste time on thinking about it any longer than she has to.

She turns to pick up the next load and grabs a clothespin from her pocket, but Emily stands there, digging her toe into the ground as she waits. “Hi, Mother,” she says softly, almost shyly. “Do you need any help with that?” She’s wearing worn-out clothing that Callista managed to patch together into something fitting her smaller and slimmer body. It’s strange to see one of Piero’s shirts repurposed onto Emily, but Jessamine supposes that they all have to make do. 

“No, I’m almost done,” Jessamine returns as she begins pinning up her own clothes. She’s very much the same; she’s sewed Havelock’s and Martin’s old clothes into something that fitted her. She’s also guilty of permanently borrowing some women’s shirts and trousers from some empty closets and apartments. They all make do though.

Emily stands there and chatters away with Jessamine about what she’s done that day and what she’s learned so far. It seems as though Callista is an excellent teacher, judging from Emily’s excited tone. Her daughter never liked the tutors at the Tower quite as much as she likes Callista, and Jessamine can’t help but admit that she’s relieved. Callista finds ways of interspersing etiquette lessons with fascinating tidbits of astronomy and the high seas that Emily longs to learn about. It’s better than nothing and certainly more than what she hoped for during the interregnum.

Once Jessamine is done with the laundry, Emily tugs her up and takes her to her room where she shows her mother all the work that she’s done. She’s plastered the wall with paper filled with drawings and shapes. One seems to be a self portrait while another seems to be Jessamine herself. In fact, Jessamine seems to be the subject of a great deal of pictures. Some of them depict Jessamine as the empress once more in her imperial throne and the crudely-drawn crest of the Kaldwins emblazoned behind her. Another picture is a quieter scene of the river and Jessamine beside the river. Each figure of her is carefully labeled with the word “Mother.” Emily always used to call her “Mummy” and occasionally “Mama.” “Mother” was a title reserved only for formal occasions with great resent. Jessamine does not know when her daughter grew up this quickly.

Corvo is another subject that seems to be repeated. One picture shows Emily, Corvo, and Jessamine all lined up beside Dunwall Tower with a brightly colored rainbow in the sky behind them. However, the one that alarms Jessamine the most is the illustration of a bloody gazebo with red crayon roughly scribbled along the bottom of the paper. A single arm juts out from the right side of the illustration, but the coat sleeve is colored a familiar Karnacan blue. 

Jessamine breathes out, “They look lovely, Emily.” Her voice cracks on Emily's name, and to cover it up, she quickly reaches down to grab her daughter’s hand and squeezes it gently.

“Have you killed people, Mother?”

Jessamine looks up at her daughter at the sudden question and examines her face. Her cheekbones still jut out from her face, and the color is more or less absent from her cheeks, but her eyes are brilliantly bright and keen. There would be no lying to her; Emily would simply see right through them. Jessamine can’t help but wonder how much of this her daughter learned before or after “the incident.” Perhaps it was the influence of the Pendleton brothers. Jessamine always remembered them being oily and sneaky and utterly rat-like during their brief time in Parliament. Regardless, Jessamine realizes belatedly that she has let the moment go on too long while being lost in her thoughts. No matter what she says now, Emily will know.

“Yes.”

It is a quiet admission, but nonetheless, it is entirely true. A simple word is all the simply truth that Jessamine can muster up right now. The Mark, the dreams, the infinite pile of unconscious and dead bodies that Jessamine had placed herself, all of those are auxiliary details to the truth that she has told.

Emily reaches out and clutches the hem of her shirt. It’s a loose and old one, probably from Havelock’s or Martin’s closet, and it is nowhere near as fine or as tailored to Jessamine’s figure like her clothes used to be in the old days. But even then and even now, Emily tightens her grip on Jessamine’s shirt until her knuckles are white and her fingers are shaking. “They were bad, weren’t they?” Emily asks softly. There’s an undercurrent of anger in her voice that makes Jessamine tense; she does not want her daughter tainted by rage. Still, Emily forges on, “I won’t ask who, but I want to know. They were bad, weren’t they? They  _ deserved _ it, didn’t they? You made them pay, Mother, didn’t you?”

Jessamine is speechless, but Emily looks up at her, eyes now bright with rage. Her pupils seem blown wide, making the brown irises thin as a sliver and leaving her eyes mostly black except for the sclera. 

“I don’t kill every single person I come across,” Jessamine tries to say gently, but some of her words come out brittle and tense. Emily’s grip slackens, and Jessamine takes the opportunity to pull her daughter in for a tight embrace. Emily buries her face in Jessamine’s shoulder as she shudders and chokes out, “Mother, you wouldn’t believe the things that they said at the Golden Cat.” 

Jessamine thinks that she can indeed.

“They, they said that you were dead and that Corvo was dead and they said things like  _ good riddance to that whore of an empress _ , and they wouldn’t stop talking about what they would do to Dunwall,” Emily says in a spill of words. Jessamine pauses as she strokes Emily’s hair, and she has to resist the urge to tighten her own grip.  _ They said words like that to my daughter?  _ she thinks with incandescent fury. She untangles her fingers from Emily’s dark hair, as dark as her own, and uses them to pull Emily slightly away and to cup her cheeks. 

“They were wrong,” Jessamine enunciates, loud and clear. “Who were they? The Pendletons? Hiram? Either way, they were wrong, and they will be dealt with.” She pauses and before Emily can burst out again, she says firmly, “They will be dealt with  _ fairly _ . I will not meet them, murder for murder. That is not who we are, Emily. We are empresses, not some lowlife assassin or a criminal. We will  _ not _ demean ourselves by stooping to their level. We must be kind and give equal measure, justice and order for their chaos and misdeeds. Yes, I have killed some men before. Some were weepers, too far to be saved, and some were criminals and men who committed crimes behind closed doors. We cannot save everyone, but  _ we must try. _ ”

Jessamine knows in her heart that these are not words to say to a child, especially one of only ten years. However, she doesn’t need the Heart to see that most of the vestiges of childhood had been stripped away from her daughter in the dark days and rooms of the Golden Cat. Too many adult whispers, moans, secrets told in the shadows, must have drifted to Emily’s eyes and ears for her to ever truly return to who she was before. Jessamine doesn’t want to do it, but she must say this to her so that her daughter can understand, so that she will be prepared. 

“Do you understand me?” Jessamine tries in a much gentler tone.

Emily nods wordlessly and buries her face in her mother’s shoulder again. Her hand drifts up to tug at the bandage tying Jessamine’s hair back, and it falls loose, hiding Emily’s face from the light. Jessamine shuts her eyes and starts rocking her, back and forth, just like she used to do when Emily was much younger. Emily’s voice sounds muffled when she speaks again, but Emily whispers, “Mother, do you ever have dreams too?”

“What sort of dreams?” Jessamine asks. The Mark on her hand seems to flare with a slight burn, but Jessamine tamps it down with the sheer force of her will.

“I can hear whales, Mother,” Emily sighs. “Like the sea when we sailed to Serkonos with Corvo. Mister Havelock told me about ships and whales and witches too. The whales sound just like his descriptions. I don’t see anyone, but I know that there’s someone watching.”

_ By the Void, the Outsider never knows when to stop meddling, _ Jessamine viciously thinks. She will have  _ words _ for him when they next meet.

“I’m sure they’re just dreams,” Jessamine soothes as she sways back and forth. “Maybe Havelock’s stories have gone to your dreams a little bit.”

“Maybe,” Emily says in a rather unconvinced tone. “Oh, but maybe…” She trails off and pulls away. “I found something while digging,” she says softly. “I started having them after I found it. Let me go find it. I’ll bring it to you.” Emily stands up and runs out of the room, her soft footsteps pitter-pattering across the worn floorboards.

Jessamine tugs off her left glove and glares at the Mark on her hand. “This better not be what I think it is,” she threatens.  
The words hang limply in the empty air of the room, and Jessamine lets out another heavy sigh. Her gaze drifts over to Emily’s drawings once more, and this time, she finds a drawing of a rough and wild sea. Only a single light hangs in the middle of the drawing, but it’s not clear what it is. Creatures swirl in the dark eddies of the water that Emily drew, and Jessamine can’t help but admit that the Kaldwins always seemed to have a penchant for art. Her father loved the arts, and her mother loved it even more. Even… Jessamine trawls through the depths of her old, old memories and realizes that even lonely Delilah loved art.  _ A Kaldwin trait through and through, _ she thinks wryly. Emily was largely the same, but Jessamine wishes that her daughter was shielded from such dark subjects like these. She slips her left glove back on as she traces the outline of the waves with her eyes.  _ A shame, _ she bitterly thinks.  _ She has to grow up so quickly. _

Emily barges into the room, and the door slams against the wall with a thud. When Jessamine turns around, she sees her daughter stick her hand out, palm up. In her open palm, a rune carved from whalebone thrums quietly. The Mark on Jessamine’s hand seems to resonate with it, and Emily cringes slightly as she says, “I thought it was a good luck charm when I found it, but then I got the dreams.”

Jessamine plucks the charm from Emily’s hand, and the Mark seems to absorb the thrum somewhat. Emily visibly deflates with relief and says, “It’s quiet now.” She pauses before she asks with worry touching her words, “Are you going to be okay?”

Jessamine nods as she says, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your dreams won’t be bothered again.” She silently adds,  _ “Or else.” _

Emily throws her arms around Jessamine, and Jessamine freezes for only a moment before she wraps her arms around Emily as well. Emily asks, “Do you have to go out soon?” 

Jessamine counts the days mentally in her head before she replies, “No, I have two days left before I have to go to… Work.”

“Good,” Emily decisively says as she pulls away. “I can show you more things that I’ve learned, and we can draw together in that time.” She scrunches her face up as she complains, “You always look sad now, and I don’t want you to be. We can spend time together and you won’t have to spend it with Havelock or Pendleton or whoever.” Emily smiles brightly at her, and the smile only falters when she asks, “Well, if you want to? If you want to talk with them, that’s okay with me, but only if you want to!”

Jessamine’s lips split into a genuine grin as she replies truthfully, “I would love to.”

She hasn’t drawn in years, and she feels like she’s always had the burden of the throne on her shoulders to spare more than a few hours for her daughter.  However, in the dusty, dim-lit room of the pub, Jessamine feels freer than she has in years. Ironic, really, to think that circumstances and fate have driven her this far only for her to realize what she lacked. 

Emily holds up a sheet of fresh paper and waggles it slightly as a grin of her own curves across her lips.  _ Corvo’s lopsided grin, _ Jessamine thinks. For once, her thoughts of Corvo aren’t tainted with regret, and she settles down next to her daughter.

As she picks up the pencil, she thinks that she might draw a crow. For memory’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kinda wrote this in a hurry, so my apologies if there are any mistakes or if it's shorter than you'd like it to be! it's kinda late rn, so that might be another reason why that's that haha ;u; be sure to let me know what you thought of the new chapter in the comments~ thank you very much for reading <3


	15. the masque of the red death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is a reference to edgar allen poe's short story!

Call it what you will, but this is a place where Jessamine knows how to thrive.

She was always known for avoiding the extravagant galas and opulent parties that thrived and grew under night’s sky in the noble houses of Dunwall. That did not necessarily mean that she was entirely inept at navigating such occasions, and in her defense, she _did_ attend a few. It was just that her empire’s government and economy required more attention than parties at times. Her father’s advisors personally disapproved of all her studies like government or anatomy or astronomy, but this was one art that they resoundingly approved of. Parties, etiquette, manners, everything a lady should know. Her governess, however, insisted that galas were where serpents learned to strike and shadows grew too dark beneath the brightly shining lamps lit by whale oil. _They do not expect survival to be an art that women learn_ , her governess whispered to her once. _But we must learn it better than the men ever do. And one place where you must always watch your back is a party. You must survive these if you expect to become Empress, my dear._

This is why Jessamine does not fear what is yet to come. In fact, she thinks that this may be the easiest mission yet. What is a party to an Abbey? All the danger is simply hidden in plain sight underneath the masks of the nobility rather than patrols of dogs and guards to actively avoid. In a way, Jessamine does prefer knowing when people plan to kill her, but years of diplomacy make her infinitely more comfortable in her own element. Carrying her own weapons in sight of all the guards does add to her own unease and adrenaline though. It’s an interesting clash between two worlds: that of Jessamine’s old days and the actions and consequences of Jessamine’s days today.

When Jessamine hands her invitation to the guard at the front, he does a double-take at her own face. For a second, she’s confused since she thought she would blend it much more easily at a masquerade. Then, she remembers that she wears the face of the Masked Felon, a man rumored to be the bane of the nobility. Ironic, considering her true identity. Nevertheless, Jessamine forces herself to trill a high laugh at his reaction and say, “Isn’t this so visceral? Perfect for a party, wouldn’t you say?” Her accent lies perfectly in the proper vowels of Dunwall nobility — a complete antithesis to the identity of the Masked Felon — and so, the guard relaxes and allows her to enter.

And so, as Jessamine stands there in her brazen mask, she feels strangely comfortable and at ease in the bubbling atmosphere of Lady Boyle’s party. Her usual attire is cleaner and newer than what she usually wears to assassinations, but her Karnacan blue coat remains the same. The same worn bandage ties her hair back, and the whirring skull mask remains on her face. The only thing special that she did was tie a small scrap of vaguely-teal fabric as a scarf around her neck. It’s not even close to the vibrant Kaldwin teal that branded her house, but it is a small reminder to herself of the old days.

Some Overseers are still there at the party, no doubt ones who have curried favor with the Boyles, but they hold music boxes in their hands that grate against Jessamine’s ears. Her Mark doesn’t burn at all, but the absence of the low hum of magic makes her feel bereft and just as uneasy. Still, her breaths remain even and calm. She needs no Mark to navigate these halls.

Some nobles gasp and sigh when they see her mask. “The Masked Felon? How utterly daring and inappropriate!” some say in hushed tones. “I do adore the new flavor of intrigue you have, darling.” To these, Jessamine simply inclines her head and in a higher, brighter tone, she replies, “I’m glad that the effect is exactly what I pictured. And your mask, dear, how stunning!”

She drifts in the crowd and accepts a drink when it’s pressed into her hands. It’s a good opportunity to pass the drink off to someone else and ingratiate herself into conversations. From a certain Miss White, she learns that the Boyles are back to their guessing games. Each lady of that mirrored set is wearing a different color, and the guests have to guess which is which.

The Lady Boyle was not a stranger to her court, and although the three sisters looked nearly identical, there were always minute details to them that separated them from each other. Men never seemed to be good at telling them apart, but to a lady, it only took careful observation. While the men were busy looking at their curves, ladies paid attention to the fall of one’s sleeve or the twist of one’s hair or the jewelry that adorned their slender necks and wrists. After all, you never knew where a blade was hidden or a small dart of poison lay. A shame that Jessamine never bothered to try in her old days. The sisters kept out of her way and as a courtesy, she kept out of theirs. Jessamine drags a hand down the cool metal of her mask as she realizes how she had made that same mistake over and over for both Hiram and others. Her own fatal flaw.

As Jessamine groans to herself, she hears a slight noise of someone clearing their throat behind her. When she turns on her heel, she sees a man with a rat’s mask. It’s a hideous affair, eyes swollen and fake fur ragged along the edges, but perhaps that was the effect that it was meant to have. The man extends a small, thin flute of champagne to her, and she accepts with a gracious “Thank you.”

The man shakes his head and replies, “Oh, no, no, it’s perfectly fine. Lord Brisby, at your service, milady.”

Lord Brisby. He was never a prominent member of her court, but she remembers that his family were close friends with the Pendletons. Also, she thinks that she remembers attending some summer soiree at his family’s estate on some island off the coasts of Gristol. Other than that, the man was perfectly unimportant.

“Ah, of course, Lord Brisby,” Jessamine murmurs in a delicate tone. The oiliness in the man’s voice is off-putting, but she swallows her disgust down. “How could I have not recognized your voice? Always a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you are?” Lord Brisby asks as he tilts his head quizzically. Jessamine tracks the movement with her eyes and privately thinks the mask to be absolutely disgusting in taste. Then again, the same could be said of her with her “Masked Felon” outfit.

“I prefer to keep that private,” Jessamine replies. “I hear the Boyle sisters are playing a guessing game, and I simply wanted to add some intrigue. Esma Boyle in particular seems to be interested in the extra game.”

“Oh, Esma?” Lord Brisby confides. “Lovely woman, but truth be told, Waverly is the true jewel of the Boyles.”

“Is that so?” Jessamine politely hums.

His entire stance brightens and he whispers to her, “I’m a friend of Pendleton’s, and I’ve done a few favors for your cause.” Jessamine stiffens almost immediately when she hears it, but the man doesn’t seem to notice and continues, “I don’t know who you are, but I know your purpose here tonight, and — I don’t know how to say this properly — the target you have tonight is the woman I love.”

 _Ah, so there’s the missing link in the chain,_ Jessamine thinks with a slight tinge of vitriol in her thoughts. Her disgust only grows, word for word, as the lord says, “I swear that if you bring her to me in the cellar below the kitchen, I’ll make sure that she’s never heard of again.” He hesitates and finishes, “I’m not proud of this, but I’ll wait there. Surely it’s better than seeing her dead. I won’t harm her, I swear, I’m a man of means. Just bring her to the cellar, and I’ll keep her safe.” He takes a quick, short breath and says simply, “Forever.”

Jessamine can’t bear to finish the conversation, so she simply turns around and leaves. But still, she can hear the way Lord Brisby calls out, “I’ll be waiting!”

Treason against the crown is one thing, but this, this is an entirely different matter. Jessamine knows down to the core of her heart and soul that if she hands Waverly Boyle over to this man, she will violate any code a woman may ever have. And _that_ is so thoroughly unacceptable. No. She will not hand over a woman no matter who she was or what she did to be _possessed_ by a man who believed himself to be a better captor than death would. Jessamine almost let out a scornful laugh at that. How laughable to believe that _he_ would be a satisfactory kidnapper, a man _who meant no harm_ , but any woman could see the pale underbelly of the pasty words he spoke. Survival was not only something a woman should know but something that a woman should honor. Jessamine resolves to find Waverly and convince her though… Other matters. She sidesteps through the crowd and misses the ease of blinking as she avoids lurching, swaying couples drunk on alcohol and the ever-present fear of the plague.

It was always known throughout the nobility that Waverly Boyle enjoyed wearing red. When Jessamine saw her in court one day, she saw the Lady Boyle in a military-cut suit the color of freshly-spilled blood. That color made her pause before carrying on with her day’s work, and it is that fact that Jessamine relies on during the masquerade. Some men and women offer dances with her, so Jessamine complies. She drifts from person to person on the dance floor following steps that she memorized in her childhood, and it is with surprise that she finds herself in the arms of a woman in red.

The low hum of her voice is soothing and genteel, just as how Jessamine recalls it to be, and Lady Boyle says, “Welcome to my party. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“I do not think we have,” Jessamine replies in her higher trill of a voice. She internally winces at it; it makes her sound childish, younger than she actually is, and is utterly unfitting for an Empress. But she is not an Empress now. She is simply a party-goer. “May I ask which sister I have the honor of dancing with?”

Lady Boyle laughs as they dip into the next set of steps, and Jessamine can’t help but think that it sounds hollow. “Oh, then that would simply ruin the fun,” she says. “How lucky we’ve caught each other for a dance though. I don’t think I dance as much at these dances as my other sisters do. There you go, a lovely little hint to help you out in the grand guessing game.”

“Ah, Lady Boyle,” Jessamine hums. “The sister who does not dance as frequently as the others then. A lady dressed all in red, no? The one I know to frequently wear white is the one that loves music the most, and the one wearing black is busy being… Physically occupied with other guests. Therefore, there is only one lady left who must be the loveliest sister of them all.”

“Ah, a flatterer,” the lady replies. “Then, do you have a guess for me?”

Jessamine drops her tone, and in the sweet, iron tone of the Empress, she says, “I have more than just a guess, Lady Waverly Boyle. I believe I have some information regarding possible threats to _you_ , and I also believe that you’d be highly interested in it.”

If there was anything to set the sisters apart, Jessamine supposed that Waverly’s strong sense of self-preservation would be the one. Esma’s promiscuity and Lydia’s penchant for music were both relatively common among the nobility, but Jessamine remembered Waverly the best. She always angled for the best position for herself and her family. Of course, it was all done in the most subtle manner, but Jessamine could see the glint in Waverly’s eyes that most noblemen couldn’t. Frankly, Jessamine wants to kick herself for not guessing the Lady Boyle and most specifically, Waverly, when Havelock first mentioned Hiram’s mistress. There would be no other woman so willing to walk the dagger-thin line of treason for any other reason than Waverly Boyle herself.

Jessamine’s suspicions are confirmed when Waverly tightens her red-gloved grip on Jessamine’s hand and waist.

“I would be interested to hear this as well,” Waverly says, dropping her own falsetto tone as well. Her voice rolls smoothly over her sharp words as she says, “Perhaps we should retire into a more private room to discuss these _matters_.”

Waverly leads up a set of spiralling stairs to her own quarters, and Jessamine is surprised to find that the room is, by noble standards, bare. There is a bed with a canopy veil, and the walls are carefully plastered with wallpaper. A small vanity lies along the side of the wall, and the curtains flutter gently against the breeze from the open window. The fireplace is empty and swept clean of ashes, and there is a small, empty elixir bottle on the bedside table. There is also a sizeable desk littered with books and papers and letters, but aside from that, there is little else to mark the room as Waverly’s.

“So,” Waverly says almost immediately when the door clicks shut behind Jessamine. “What do you have to say to me?” Her tone is demanding, and in the dim light of the moon and the whale-oil lamps from outside, she looks positively threatening with her blank canvas of a mask.

“Perhaps some light would not be remiss?” Jessamine suggests.

Waverly pauses and with short, brusque movements, she lights an oil lamp and stands with shoulders straight and solid. “Now that we are sufficiently lit,” she says in a deceptively demure tone. “Perhaps you should tell me what you know before I call the guards on you.”

“You are in danger,” Jessamine says simply. “There are many men and women out there who do not trust your alliance with the spymaster, Hiram Burrows.” Jessamine does not miss the way Waverly’s stance shifts as she continues, “You walk with a man who committed high treason, Lady Waverly Boyle, and soon, _soon_ , the time will come for the man to pay for his crimes.”

“You’re the _real_ Masked Felon,” Waverly breathes out. “You’ve already taken care of the High Overseer, the Pendleton brothers, Doctor Sokolov, and now, you must be here for me.”

“Not quite,” Jessamine quickly cuts in before Waverly can scream for the guards. “I came here to warn you as a show of good faith. Do you know a man named Lord Brisby?”

Waverly reaches up to pull the red mask and hat off her face to reveal her bright, flinty eyes and the perfectly coiffed hair beneath. Under the flickering light of the lamp, she looks like a woman waiting for a murder. Possibly for her own.  
“Of course I do,” she says. “What for?”

Jessamine shrugs, “The man has been planning to kidnap you and take you to his estate on the Brisby family island off the coast of Gristol.” She doesn’t know that for sure, but where else could Brisby go undetected? She doubts her guess is wrong either. Waverly’s flawless expression cracks along the edges, and Jessamine continues, “I was offered a great deal of money and silence if I were to bring you to him, unconscious and unharmed. He claimed to keep you out of harm’s way and to treat you properly, but between woman to woman, do either of us really believe that?”

“What do you want from me? What are you trying to gain from this?” Waverly suddenly says. Her eyes are still cold, but her hands are shaking. Jessamine effectively broke any veneer of nobility and charm from Waverly, and now, all that’s left is the pure grit and iron that comprises the youngest Boyle sister.

“I want to know more about Hiram Burrows, more about his system and how to take him down,” Jessamine replies frankly. Honesty for honesty, she figures, is the best policy now that Waverly is sufficiently shaken. “You’re his mistress and his financer. I want information that you have. In return, I will keep you out of Lord Brisby’s hands. I assure you, no amount of guards will save you from that man _except_ for me.” Jessamine flexes her left hand slightly and the oil lamp snuffs out without even a single trace.

Waverly swallows before she collects herself again. “Hiram? Oh, you have no idea. He only loves the _idea_ of the Lady Boyle,” she scoffs. Now that her mask is off her face — both literally and figuratively — she seems more comfortable and dangerous in her own skin. “He has always loved our money first, and after that, our curves. My sister, Esma, plays with him in bed, and I entertain him when he’s clothed,” she says with a dangerous glint in her eye. “And what’s the matter with that? He gets his money and his sex, my sister receives her fun and pleasure, and I reap the benefits for my family. It is… An investment. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Then why would you place your alliances with him?” Jessamine asks as she begins the interrogation.

Waverly pulls her high-backed chair out from her desk and sits down gracefully as she replies, “Easy. The Kaldwin family was becoming weak. Look at the dead Empress. She was desperate and turned a blind eye in favor of seeing only the _good_ in everything. She valued the peasants and the paupers too much to see what was really going on in Parliament or in the courts. And her daughter? Barely even legitimate according to all standards of the court. Now, look at me and try to honestly tell me if that is a leader worth placing your bets on.”

Jessamine blinks at the honest admission, and she takes a small step back. She didn’t know that she appeared that weak, that stupid to everyone else in the court. How silly they must have viewed her! How foolish she must have been! As much as Waverly’s words sting, they have a grain of truth at the center of each one that makes it sting even more.

“I don’t know everything that Hiram does, but I can offer you a deal,” Waverly says with a cock of her head. “I can bring you information in exchange for protection. I want a clear sign of protection and _benefits_ that you can bring me, Masked Felon. My sisters, my estate, my riches, all of it. I want to keep it and watch it add up. If you can do that for me, I will continue my manipulation of our dear friend, Hiram. We’ll both benefit, and we’ll both be on the winning team.”

“I can do better than that,” Jessamine says quietly. “You don’t need protection from people, Lady Boyle. I can bring you protection from the plague.”

“What?” Waverly says blankly. “How?”

“I have my ways,” Jessamine replies blandly. She makes a gesture towards the window with her left hand and says, “I can keep the rats away from your estate, and that should be enough to keep the plague away from your doorstep while a cure is being made. Keep drinking your elixirs; I can’t do anything about the disease that your servants or other guests might bring into your home. But for all the other factors? I can take care of it.”

Jessamine can see the temptation, bright and clear, in Waverly's eyes, but the Lady Boyle isn’t done yet though.

“And who are you?” Waverly demands. Her tone is petulant, but the look on her face indicates that it is anything but. Jessamine tilts her head and examines her through the glass eyes of her mask as Waverly taps her foot. The scarlet suits her too well, and Jessamine doesn’t know why Sokolov painted her in white. No, Waverly Boyle, the youngest of the sisters, needs to be clothed in the red of the blood and the danger that she deals with.

Jessamine simply replies, “We both know that you’re too clever to ask that question, Lady Waverly Boyle. Do remember my words and heed them. It doesn’t matter if you increase your guards or inform Burrows. I’ll always find a way in.” She pauses and leans in slightly closer to whisper, “Perhaps it’s time to recast your bets and find new investments. I would if I were you. Good luck on your game, Lady Boyle.” With that, Jessamine pats Waverly’s shoulder and slips out the door on silent steps. She lets the door shut behind her before she blinks away in a swirl of air. When Waverly slams the door open in her pursuit, she finds only the scent of fresh rain — not Dunwall rain, but pure, clear rain — and the scent of roses.

In the silence, Waverly stands there and inhales as she begins to re-evaluate her alliances and loyalties. Because in the end, she is neither a Loyalist or a member of Hiram’s treasonous group. Her only alliances lie with herself and her family. She bites her lip until it becomes redder than the lipstick over it, and she whispers, “You’ve gotten sharper, Empress. Let us see how this game plays out then.” Waverly turns on her heel and does not rejoin the party. Instead, she sets out a fresh sheet of parchment and a new pot of ink. She has some planning and refinancing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i... super duper hate the nonlethal version of the party mission because it just seems way too sketchy for me to be passing lady boyle off to lord brisby ://// thankfully, here's my edited version of the mission ending!! let me know what you thought about it in the comments below!
> 
> and honestly, i rly like the references of the title + the red mask + jessamine keeping the rats away bc it all kinda resonates together with the same vibe of poe's story? not quite completely, but it's in the same vein haha


	16. a queen's duty

“They say Lord Brisby’s unconscious body was found along the banks of the Wrenhaven,” Havelock conversationally says at the breakfast table. Emily’s eyes grow wide and round as she’s mid-bite through her slice of stale toast. Jessamine only sips her cup of tea and shrugs noncommittally. 

“Such conversation starters are not necessarily suited for breakfast, Admiral,” she chides softly as she sets her teacup down with nary a clink. “Some of us would prefer to eat our toast and carry on instead of dwelling on such macabre details.”

“Was he dead?” Emily bursts out. Jessamine sighs and raises an eyebrow at Havelock.  _ I told you so, _ she thinks wryly.  _ Eager ears are at this table as well, Admiral. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you. _

Havelock has had his own fair share of questions from Emily, and he recognizes the exact same scenario here at the table. He quickly chokes down his bite of toast before he says sheepishly to Emily, “I’m afraid I don’t know much more than that, my lady. He’s not dead though.”

Before Emily can ask another, Jessamine quietly says, “And that’s enough of that topic. Emily, finish your toast before it gets cold.”

It’s already cold, but Emily knows a reminder when she receives one. She sullenly nods and takes a half-hearted bite of toast. Jessamine glances at Havelock and inclines her head before she sips the last dregs of her tea. Piero and Sokolov only soldier on through the rest of their limited meal as they try to avoid each other’s eye contact. Jessamine wryly thinks,  _ I suppose those two learned their own lesson about fighting at the breakfast table from the last time. Now if only Havelock would learn it as well. _

After all, Jessamine scolded the two once for bickering and yelling at breakfast. Really, it was a complete shame because on that day, Cecelia had managed to procure two eggs and Callista stretched those two out with water and powdered milk to make thin scrambled eggs. Honestly, Jessamine doesn’t want to know where Cecelia stole them from, but the change in the usual fare was welcome. Either way, she’d really prefer not to start the day off with an argument, especially if her daughter was sitting there as well.

After breakfast, Jessamine is the one to approach Havelock first.  _ Might as well get it over with, _ she silently thinks as she sits down in one of the worn chairs in the admiral’s quarters. Havelock sits down on the opposite side and folds his hands down on the table rather expectantly. Oh, two can play  _ that _ game, and Jessamine hardens her gaze and waits. Silence passes by in awkward, stilted pauses, but Jessamine has had her own fair share of playing the waiting game with Parliament.

Teague Martin suddenly and silently slides into the seat beside the admiral. His sudden appearance both make Jessamine and Havelock stiffen, but Martin softly chuckles, “Only a High Overseer at your service.” His gaze focuses on Jessamine before he comments, “I hear the Lady Boyle is still alive and well at Dunwall Tower.” 

Havelock splays his hands down on the worn pub table as he follows up on Martin’s comment. “Yes, we would  _ love _ to know more about that,  _ your Imperial Highness. _ ”

Jessamine sizes up the two of them with a skilled eye, and she allows them to wince in the too-long moments of silence before she finally clears her throat. “The contact at the party wished to take Lady Boyle away instead of killing her,” she begins in a deceptively casual and easy tone. It’s the voice that she’s cultivated especially for Parliament. She hopes the double-edged condescension pokes through more often than not though. “However, removing her from the picture entirely is a poor choice. Lady Boyle is not a fool, and she does not pass up good opportunities without careful consideration. What I offered her was more enticing than whatever our dear Burrows could offer up from his lofty tower.” 

The admiral leans forward and folds his hands on the old table as he asks intently, “And what might that be?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jessamine replies back in a too-smooth tone.

The look in Havelock’s eye is dangerous, yet Jessamine can’t bring herself to care. Instead she and Martin eye each other, both knowing that one of them regularly digs for the other’s secrets. What would Teague Martin do to weasel out this one? The Mark burns on Jessamine’s hands, and for a moment, she wonders if Martin  _ knows _ . 

She stands up and quietly says, “I believe only Dunwall Tower is left. The pieces are set, and our dear Lord Regent is rattled by recent developments. Now, it is time for us to act. Do let me know when you come to a decision on that.” Jessamine makes her way off the worn seat and starts to leave, but she swivels around to eye Havelock. “After all,” she wryly says. “You always do end up making decisions without my input. I’m sure you’ll end up doing the same thing again.” Without another word, she leaves the two to their own silence.

As she heads towards Emily’s room, Jessamine has to admit that her statement is entirely and frustrating true. Even if Havelock’s plans have gone relatively well, she still dislikes the fact that she has little say in it. Just before she opens Emily’s door, Callista comes panting after her. When the girl catches a sight of Jessamine, she freezes and hurriedly explains, “Emily wanted to play hide-and-seek and ran off before I could tell her to stop!”

Jessamine can’t help but laugh at Callista’s expression; it’s a mixture of anxiety, fatigue, and irritation. It’s a look that’s been on every single one of Emily’s tutors save for Corvo, and Corvo barely counted as a tutor.  _ Well, he did teach her how to do a Tyvian chokehold once _ , she muses to herself. However, she focuses back on Callista and pats her shoulder comfortingly as she says, “I’ll play hide and seek with her. Go back and prepare your next lesson for Emily before I bring her back. Thank you, Callista.” 

Callista’s shoulders sag with utter relief, and she nods once before she hurries off to prepare the next lesson. Jessamine watches her leave and wonders if the girl would ever loosen up around her. Callista Curnow was normally a more reserved and calm girl, but around her, she seemed to be more on edge. She could chalk it up to either her own status as an empress or distrust of authority figures. She wouldn’t blame her for either, especially considering how her uncle was almost murdered by one.

Jessamine changes her path and circles around to the hiding spots in the pub that Emily would most likely go for. Years of experience with the game prove her right as she crouches down near an empty pub booth to see Emily hiding under the worn table. Her daughter flashes her a bright smile as she whispers, “Is Callista nearby?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Jessamine replies back with amusement. “I’m supposed to be the seeker now. She went to prepare the next lesson.”

Emily’s face scrunches up into a distasteful grimace as she sighs, “I didn’t want to take the next lesson. I was really hoping that she would come find me.”

“Well, I found you, and that’ll have to do, won’t it?” Jessamine asks as she scoots her way beneath the table too. It’s a tighter fit for her, but she rearranges her limbs as best she can much to the delight of her daughter. Jessamine thinks that she’ll never get tired of the way Emily giggles.

Emily leans against Jessamine and tucks her legs underneath her as she hesitantly asks, “Mother? Have you… Have you started to dream too?” Emily looks up, and her expression falls when she sees the confused and blank look on her mother’s face. “You know,” she prods. “The little piece of bone that I found. Does it give you dreams too?”

Jessamine considers the shoreless seas that her dreams have become. The constant bellowing of whales, the sharp scent of the air ionizing around her as the Void forces her to fall into another scene of its liking, the constant presence of the Outsider just behind her back. She cannot tell her daughter this. Emily should never know. So, Jessamine lies, “No, it doesn’t. I think it’s safer off with me since I don’t get the dreams.”

Emily shudders and says, “Good. I was worried about you.” Her voice cracks as she says, “I thought you would have nightmares too.”   
If anything, Jessamine is already living a nightmare, so there’s nothing much to an additional nightmare at night. At least then, she wouldn’t have the constant oppressive thoughts and presence of Overseers and the  _ Lord Regent _ towering over her like they did in day. The Outsider cannot inflict any more fear on her; she can do that job herself. She pats Emily’s shoulders and says, “Don’t worry, Emily. Mother’s safe.”

Emily suddenly grips Jessamine’s hand, and in the shadows that the table casts on them, she looks desperate and sharp on all the wrong edges. “Are you going to go back to Dunwall Tower,” she asks. Her expression hardens, and her eyes glint. “ _ Take it back,”  _ she whispers. It’s nearly a hiss, and she continues, “Take the throne back from  _ him. _ Make sure that he can  _ never _ touch it again. Make sure that he can never  _ hurt _ someone again.”

Jessamine smoothes Emily’s hair and leans in to brush a gentle kiss on Emily’s forehead. While Emily can’t meet her eyes, she breaks her mask once to reveal her crumbled expression underneath. It would be impossible for Emily to be left unscathed throughout this entire ordeal, but sometimes, Jessamine wonders how much of Emily is being whetted and sharpened for the killing. Perhaps this is Corvo’s streak in her, the streak that would never be erased, indelible as her blood, but  _ still _ . Jessamine whispers, “Don’t worry, Emily. Mother can handle it.”

“I love you,” Emily says in a rush. Her voice is small, but her tone is genuine, real, and aching. 

“And I love you too,” Jessamine replies back in the same volume. She exerts all her energy to keep her voice from breaking, and they stay like that for another moment, nestled underneath the table.

Jessamine only leaves the pub when she is sure that Emily is safe and sound. Callista thanks her quietly when she settles Emily down on her chair and hands her the paper and pencil once more. Jessamine spares a few more minutes to watch Callista roll out a map and lecture on the different isles.

She’s still thinking about the map when Samuel takes the skiff down the Wrenhaven with practiced ease. Gristol was large and defined on the map, and to Jessamine’s eyes, it looked luminous and memorable. 

Twilight settles down on the city, and combined with the fog, Dunwall looks positively miserable. However, Jessamine looks at it with a nostalgic and melancholy expression lined on her face. It’s just the normal fog that swathes Dunwall, and to her, this was the fog and grey that she grew up in. She remembers growing up and seeing the dull grey of her city from her window. She always asked her father why this was a city worth living in, why this was worth ruling in,  _ why _ it was worth protecting. Her father gently moved her index finger to point at the buildings.

 

_ It’s not just about Dunwall, Jessamine. It’s about the people who live in it. It’s about the people that make Dunwall live. We do not rule because of the power. We rule for the people. Never forget that. _

 

Samuel looks at her and suddenly says, “Your last memories of Dunwall Tower may not be good, but I believe that you can make a difference, milady.”   
Jessamine distractedly replies, “What do you mean, Samuel?” Perhaps her silence was misinterpreted. 

He only gives her a sad smile in response, and Jessamine is left to puzzle it out. Samuel normally seems more upbeat than that, and she doesn’t know why he’s like this. She sighs and shifts in her place, and the skiff rocks slightly in return. The sound of water parting for the skiff grows slightly louder, and Samuel examines her with a look of concern. However, the last thing he says to her is a simple “Good luck.” With that, Jessamine is left to her own, staring at the water lock. 

Corvo must have gone through the very same water lock on the day that he came back. Almost every ship near Dunwall’s shores does. She’s been through the water lock her own fair share of times as well: the times she sailed to Morley, to  Serkonos, to Tyvia. Now, as she returns back to the tower, she feels the Heart churning in her pocket.  She makes her way through the water lock and to the tower easily enough. Blinks help her here and there when she needs it, but the Heart grows incessant with its low thrum.

“We have both been here before,” it whispers in a rush of words, spilling over and filling Jessamine’s mind the minute she brushes her fingertips across it. 

“We have,” she agrees. “We will be here again many times again.” Jessamine pauses and adds mentally,  _ if we are lucky.  _

The Heart — oh,  _ Corvo _ — replies, “If the plague were to take the entire city, or flames consume it, Dunwall Tower would be the last to fall. It will always be possible to return.”

Jessamine muses, “True, but Dunwall Tower is not so tall that it can rise above the stench of death. It too can fall. It will be our job to make sure it does not. It is my  _ duty.” _

Quietly, ever so quietly, Jessamine slips her fingers out of her pocket, and Corvo’s voice fades away from her mind as she focuses deeply on the present. With silent steps, she starts making her way back towards what she intends to reclaim: the Tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! it's been a while, but i was focusing on finishing my other fic, [finding family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186434) before finishing this one. there aren't many chapters left, so i'm hoping to finish it soon! thanks for reading and for your patience + let me know what your opinion of the new chapter was!


	17. reclamation

It’s strange to not walk on her usual paths, but Jessamine’s done her own fair share of wandering and running within the Tower grounds as a young girl. She edges along the boundary of the moat as she remembers how she used to find new nooks and corners with Delilah, but she stamps down the memory as soon as it pops up. Delilah was a girl of the past, and at this point, she has no idea if Delilah is even alive. 

Delilah was a precocious, beautiful girl who Jessamine saw as her own sister despite them having different mothers. She had  _ dreams _ , and when she shared them with Jessamine, they would always giggle with absolute delight. Delilah wasn’t afraid to say things that needed to be said, and she had a piercing gaze that Jessamine swore could see through lies every single time. She was also artistic beyond belief: marveling at the delicate color of a rose petal, sketching out something new on a spare piece of scratch paper, cajoling the maids to get her the dying coals from the fire to use in charcoal drawings. Delilah was gone though, and Jessamine doesn’t want to think about her anymore. It was her fault she was gone anyways. 

She shakes her head and goes on to a different door that she knows. She’s never been there personally, but she knows that from here, she can get into the Tower itself. But to her surprise, she finds a man inside who drops his metal tools and cowers at the sight of her mask.

“W-who are you!” he cries out, barely keeping his voice from blubbering. Recognition flashes in his eyes as he stutters, “Y-you’re that masked fellow, aren’t you?  _ Please _ don’t kill me, I’m not the one you want! The Lord Regent’s in his Tower, just go get him and not me, please! I can tell you different ways to get in. I’m just an engineer, I have kids, a wife, please!”

Jessamine stares blankly at the man behind her mask, and she examines the room and the man with flicking glances. He’s got on dirty overalls, stained with engine oil, and the tools on the floor are various wrenches and screwdrivers and whatever else. He’s right; he has to be an engineer. The room itself poses no particular danger, so Jessamine ponders out loud, “What has your job been like so far?”

He blinks at her before he says, “Uh, uh, I-i don’t know. I operate the most — “

Jessamine shakes her head. “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” she clarifies. “As in your own opinion.”

“My opinion,” he repeats.

“Yes, what has the tower been like, how have people treated you, things of that matter,” she explains patiently. She has to admit that this is an absolute waste of time and that she  _ should _ be focusing on Hiram instead. Still, she can’t resist the opportunity to ask someone without the crown forcing them to lie. 

“M-my job is the same as ever, milady,” he slowly says. He tacks on the milady at the end like a second thought. His eyes shift around the room, and Jessamine gets ready to grab her sleep darts. He sighs and grimaces, “More guards and more rules around after  _ his _ rules.”

Jessamine relaxes and inquires, “Do you not like the Lord Regent?” The title feels heavy on her tongue, and she’s glad that the mask hides her face and the absolutely disgusted look that crosses over it.

The engineer suddenly gains defiance and spits at her feet before he snarls, “The empress was kinder and better than the rat we have on the throne now. What? Are you the regent’s dog? Asking all of your little questions, carrying that blade around?”

A warm feeling starts in Jessamine’s heart and spreads through her chest. She lifts up her gloved hand to carefully remove her mask and gives the engineer a gentle and grateful smile. “No, I am not,” she says honestly. “Thank you for your service, sir, and for your loyalty. I’ll be off then.” With that, she slides her mask back on and slips into the night, leaving behind the stunned and shocked engineer.

Now, as Jessamine makes her way into the Tower itself, she treads carefully. The carpets muffle her footsteps and she knows which floorboards creak the most. She’s spent 32 years too many to  _ not  _ know. Her Mark helps her blink through and mask herself from the bustling movement of servants and guards. Every now and then, she comes across arc pylons, but she easily disarms them with experience and Sokolov’s own tips. The scent of roses and lilies follow her as she blinks onto ledges, railings, even the chandeliers at some point. That, along with the scent of fresh rain, is the only trace she leaves behind of her magic and steps. She pauses and decides to step into a room with absolute care, trying to find some hint or clue. Perhaps there are some forgotten letters, little things that someone forgot that she can use. 

However, Jessamine ducks behind a large, overstuffed armchair just in time to overhear loud footsteps. Then, she heard Hiram’s loud and piercing nasal voice say, “I will  _ not _ sleep in the safe room. There is absolutely no reason to. I will not have my routines disturbed, do you hear me?”

“But sir,” a different voice pleads. “That Masked Felon may still be running about. We can protect you better in the safe room we prepared.”

“No, no,” Hiram insists. “I shall sleep in my own room, and there will be no more discussion on this matter. You are dismissed.” 

Jessamine smiles to herself; Hiram just made it so,  _ so _ easy for her. The guard or whoever it was lets out a long sigh before they turn and step out of the room. The door clicks behind them, but Hiram does not leave. Instead, he walks over to the armchair and flops down to take a seat himself. Jessamine tries to make herself even smaller, tuck her arms and legs closer together, and hide behind the armchair. She could kill him now — it would be so easy — but there’s a vindictive part of Jessamine that holds her back and insists that there are so many other ways to make Hiram  _ pay _ for what he’s done. Murder is so conveniently short to the point where it would be a mercy for his rotten soul. That is the only thing that keeps her from pulling her blade out and plunging it through Hiram’s miserable chest.

He leaves with a measured and heavy step, and Jessamine memorizes the pattern of his treads as he leaves. She’ll know when he comes, and she’ll know where he’ll go. That information is enough for her. She leaves the room just as how she found it, and she blinks back out with only a gentle breeze in her wake. 

She examines more and more rooms, overhears conversations, and glances around the corners to find out that there is much, much more going on in the Tower than she initially expected. Most servants despise the Lord Regent while the guards are kept at their stations through the pure force of money. Most nobles seem to be glad to have her gone, but their fear of the plague overpowers everything else. The Lord Regent keeps everyone and everything under his control mainly through that fear. Jessamine also suspects that the money from the Boyle family keeps him afloat as well.

As she examines another room, Jessamine suddenly hears footsteps.  _ Shit, _ she thinks as she desperately scans the room for a hiding place. There’s no place that’s big enough to conceal her, but then, she looks up and desperately blinks up with a flash from her Mark. Jessamine balances on the jutting edge of the doorframe and almost loses her footing when she sees Lady Boyle.

“Very well,” Waverly Boyle says in her low, soft voice, but her tone verges on sharpness. With an exhale of breath, she clicks the door shut. Jessamine can see Waverly sigh and examine the rings on her finger as the lady says, “A shame that men don’t seem to pay much attention to their surroundings.” A jewel slides sideways to reveal a small and empty well in the gold setting of the ring. A perfect spot for poison or sleeping draught, whatever it may be. Jessamine can even zoom in to see the crevice up close, but she rotates the lenses to hone in on Lady Boyle’s face instead. Waverly tilts her head up and gives a dagger-sharp smile to Jessamine as she says, “I noticed the shadow on the corner of that small side-table over there. Not much, considering the general darkness of the room, but lamp light just doesn’t make shadows like that, empress. Truly a shame that men don’t pay enough attention to their surroundings.”

Jessamine drops down to the ground and lands in a crouch, poised on her toes like a cat. She straightens up and smoothes down her coat before she inclines her head and says, “A shame for them, a benefit for us.”

“Always straight to the point, empress,” Waverly says as she sizes Jessamine’s attire up. “It’s surprisingly refreshing. More subtle than men but more blunt than women. A strange but equal balance.” 

Waverly’s right; Jessamine always had the barest minimum of what her governess called “the ladylike art of conversation.” To her, it felt like a waste of time with all the divertations, distractions, breathy sighs, and honey-tongued lies. Besides, she was an empress, was she not? A ruler couldn’t waste their time with false words. Of course, she used some in order to remain civil and persuade others when it needed to be done, but after years of living in court, she found that she preferred bare honesty. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why she was so drawn to Corvo when she first met him, but that was a tale for a different time. Not now. Not when the fate of her empire and her daughter lie at stake.

“Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?” Jessamine asks. If the lady wants honesty, she’ll get it. 

“Oh, you know,” Waverly says as she casually gestures to Jessamine. “I thought you would be dropping by sooner or later. I wished to welcome you back home if you will.”

Jessamine raises an eyebrow behind the mask and dryly replies, “I sincerely doubt that is all you had in mind, Lady Boyle.”

The lady waves her hand nonchalantly, “I refinanced some of my own personal interests here in the Tower directly, and I did my own fair share of investigating. Most of the men in the guard for the Tower are under my thumb now, and I have some information that I believe you would welcome.”

Jessamine takes the opportunity to examine Waverly more closely. This time, instead of white, she’s attired in her classic colors. Her suit is tailored perfectly to her body, and accents of crimson red stand out against a flat black. A red sash is tied around her waist, and she has a high color of the same bloody shade. Good. White doesn’t suit her at all. White is for innocents, and Waverly is anything but.

“Go on,” Jessamine prods. “Out with it. There isn’t much time.”

Waverly waves her hand nonchalantly and murmurs, “There is  _ always _ time. It just depends on how you make it. Regardless, I have a way for you to kill Hiram without killing him at all.”

“Oh?” Jessamine inquires. “And how do you intend to make such a paradox occur, Lady Boyle?”

Waverly Boyle leans in closer, and her eyes glitter in the dim light as she murmurs, “Guilt plagues that man more than the rat plague does. He abuses his audiograph every day and night in addition to alcohol.” She chuckles darkly, “Recordings. So many recordings of every single thing that he’s done. I’ve never listened to them, but he keeps them in a special safe. The combination is 934. The number of stones inlaid into the paved part of the courtyard. He’s got an eye for detail.” She snorts and says bluntly, “He’s quite anal about everything, even his own sexual tastes.”

Jessamine wrinkles her nose and shakes her head as she mutters, “I really didn’t need to know anything about his sexual life.”

A slow smirk curls across Waverly's lips as she says, “The man is surprisingly loose-tongued when he’s done with his business in the bedroom. Even a fool would know better than that, but then again, my sister is quite good at what she revels in doing. Do you see what I see, empress?”

Through thinly-veiled words, Jessamine sees the utter genius in Waverly’s plan. The recordings could be broadcasted all over the city within minutes if only she obtains them in time. No need to kill Burrows like Havelock and the others advised. This was a lady’s plan, a more subtle path to take. 

“Very well,” Jessamine replies. “Thank you for your service to the empire, Lady Waverly Boyle.”

The lady simply chuckles again, and a sharp, _sharp_ smile crosses her face before she says, “A final word, empress. Do be careful with that heart of yours.”

Jessamine flinches and almost physically recoils away from her. Does she  _ know? _ She has to resist the urge to reach into her pocket; Waverly will notice and Waverly will take note. That is what she always does, and Jessamine cannot afford to have another weakness, another nervous tic, out in the open for common knowledge.

Waverly sighs, “You always did trust too easily while you were on the throne. This is a lesson, and I advise you learn it well.” She leaves with a flutter of her crimson sash, and she does not close the door all the way when she leaves. Instead, she leaves only a crack for light to filter through and an easier opening for Jessamine to take. 

_ “You are unsettled, _ ” the Heart says in the silence. _"The society of Dunwall know better than to make an enemy of Waverly Boyle. You, however, have made an ally of her.”_

“That I have,” Jessamine sighs as she twists her hands together. Stress prickles at her nerves, and she has to suck in a deep breath to calm herself.

_ "She suffers from reckless frivolity, followed by long bouts of melancholy,” _ the Heart comments.

Jessamine pulls out the Heart to eye it and ask, “Then is this just another bout of recklessness from her?”

_ “No, it is careful calculation,” _ the Heart answers.  _ “Waverly Boyle is not a fool, and her melancholy does not stop her from seeing what is most beneficial to her and her family.” _

_ Fair, _ Jessamine thinks. She slips out of the room unseen and unheard as she stows the Heart away in her pocket. She finds the safe easily enough too. Hiram may think he has secrets upon secrets, but even he has not stayed at this Tower as long as she has. She finds only a single recording in the safe, but she plays it on an audiograph just in case. Her eyes grow wider and wider, and the rage sparks and blazes in her heart.

_ “If I explain, then you will see, I am not at fault. My Poverty Eradication Plan was meant to bring prosperity to the City, to rid us of those scoundrels who waste their days in filth and drink, without homes or occupations other than to beg for the coin for which the rest of us toil. And it was a simple plan – bring the disease bearing rats from the Pandyssian Continent, and let them take care of the poor for us. The plan worked perfectly. At first. But the rats – it was as if they sought to undo me. They hid from the catchers, and bred at a sickening rate. Soon it didn’t matter, rich, poor, all were falling sick.” _

Jessamine tightens her fist, and her anger is furious, all-consuming, turning into dangerous wrath. Why hadn’t she just killed him then when she had the chance? Her fingers brush over her blade’s hilt, and she grips it with her fury as the audiograph plays on.

_ “And then people began to ask questions. The Empress assigned me to investigate whether the rats had been imported by a foreign power. I knew the truth would come out eventually. So there was no other way than to be rid of her, and take power myself. She had to die, you see. SHE HAD TO DIE. Bringing about the death of an Empress is not an easy thing, but it gave me the chance to attack the plague with some real authority. Quarantines! Deportation of the sick! But there’s always some idiot woman searching for her wretched lost babe, or some sniveling workman searching for his missing wife. And then quarantine is broken! But you can see how my plan should have worked? Would have worked! If everyone had just followed orders.” _

Oh, so she  _ had _ to die? Jessamine starts pacing now, and that sets off a train of thoughts churning in her head. A plague to get rid of the poor? The plan simply makes no sense to her, and she cannot imagine the amount of hatred Hiram must have had for them. Did he really care so little about the lives of many? Was poverty so distasteful to him? How much had he sneered at her behind her back? How many times and how many plots had he hatched while she wasn’t paying attention. Jessamine feels that familiar knot of guilt, but she chokes it out with her wrath instead. Oh, she’ll make sure the entire city knows this. She’ll make sure that Hiram Burrows gets what he deserves.

The broadcasting room isn’t hard to find. The broadcaster himself is laughably weak, and his cowardice shows across his face more easily than anything Jessamine had ever seen.  He stammers and tries to choke out an excuse, much like the engineer, but he’s too late. The Heart quietly accuses,  _ "He always eats very well, even as his wife and child grow thin. He spies on his neighbors and reports to the Overseers."  _

Jessamine gives him the small mercy of getting knocked unconscious. Her fingers still twitch towards the blade though. She shakes her head, trying to get rid of the conscious urge to kill out of her mind. She leans over the microphone and taps it — one, two — before she clears her throat and says calmly, precisely, “Hello, citizens of Dunwall. This is your empress, Jessamine Kaldwin the First, speaking. My apologies for being absent over the past year. I’m afraid I ran into some difficulties while tackling the problems that our city has had. I think it’ll simply be easier if I played a recording rather than try to explain it all.”

The recording plays, and Jessamine quietly leaves the room with the unconscious propaganda officer shoved haphazardly underneath the desk. The audiograph recording rolls on, and as she walks down the halls, she can hear some of its ringing words from a few open windows. She pays no more attention to it and focuses solely on striding down the halls and taking the right turns when she needs to. She’s rewarded with the sight of Hiram Burrows running down the halls with several guards chasing after him. He turns the corner and stops in his tracks when he sees her in her mask.

“Y-you!” he cries out. “The Masked fellow! I’ll pay you anything you want, just get me out of here!” 

The guards draw their own weapons and point it at her, but Jessamine only laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs, and she laughs again at their startled faces when she takes off her mask. “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere except Coldridge,” she hums. She straightens the collar of her coat and curls her lip as she says, “Your days are over, Hiram. Goodbye.”

“Empress Jessamine?” a guard asks, his voice high and trembling. He must be a young one, a new one brought in to fill a gap. Jessamine raises her gaze from Hiram’s broken expression and finds the guard; sure enough, he’s young and his cheeks look waxen from shock. 

She gives him a wan smile and says, “Yes, it’s me. It’s good to be back home again.”

“Yes, your Imperial Majesty!” he cries out with a firm and crisp salute. With renewed energy, he’s the first one to step forward and drag a wordless, weak Hiram away from Jessamine. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “Please take care of this issue. I’ll be off to check on some other affairs in the Tower.”

She turns on her heel and walks away. Her Karnacan blue coat flutters behind her with its long coattails, and she finds herself walking a familiar path. She ascends the stairs and makes the right corners to see the entrance to her secret room. Her heart aches as the entrance opens up, and she traces a finger across the wall. Thick dust comes off it and leaves a grey residue on her fingertip that she brushes off. Her old letters are still there on her little table, and her old recordings are still there next to the audiograph. 

Out of sentimentality, she slots in her last recording and listens to the sound of her own voice. That was so long ago. A year ago, in fact, and she grieves silently as she reads through the last letter that Corvo sent her. She clicks her lamp on to get a better look at it. The twist and curl of his handwriting makes her heart pang and long for a different time, a brighter time. Still, she turns to a cupboard and pulls out a glass and a bottle. With ease, she unstoppers the bottle and pours out rich, dark wine into the glass. She pulls out the Heart and sets it on the table, and then, she raises her glass to it.

“We won, Corvo. We made it.”

The Heart is uncharacteristically quiet, and instead of its susurrant reply, she hears a different voice reply instead, “Here you are, Jessamine, within the high wall of what used to be your enemy’s stronghold.”

Jessamine simply sighs. She should’ve expected him. Without turning around, she asks casually, “What, would you like a glass as well?” She doesn’t bother waiting for a reply and simply pulls out another glass. He probably wouldn't answer anyways and continue on with whatever he had to say.

The Outsider pads up to the small table and muses, “You’re an unstoppable force, it seems, but also unpredictable. The Lord Regent lives, despite all he’s done. And that is most surprising.” He picks up the glass of wine that Jessamine poured out for him and swirls the wine inside with an unreadable expression. “The last year must have been agony for such a tightly-wound man, watching as the plague spiraled out of control. As people on the streets went mad and died bleeding from the eyes. Knowing that it was all his fault. As you hunted down his people one by one, and finally came for him, he must have realized that all his planning was for nothing. And that must have been exquisitely terrifying.”

Jessamine tiredly replies, “Can’t we just have a quiet moment where I can drink wine and celebrate in peace? I’ve done enough, and you have as well.”

The Outsider chortles and continues, unheeding of her words, “But in the end, you chose the more measured response. What will that mean in the days to come, I wonder. I've lived a long, long time, and these are the moments I wait for. Don’t celebrate too early, Empress. The end isn’t here yet.”

The Outsider fades away and leaves behind his wine glass, but instead of wine, there’s only glistening whale oil left. Jessamine picks it up to examine it, and it gleams in the dull light of her lamp. Either way, the truth is that she’s reclaimed her Tower, her throne, her crown. Even then, she still feels her losses and her troubles keenly. Instead of pushing it down and holding together like she’s done for the past year, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin the First sits down to hold her Heart and cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much left now! also, i truly believe that this would have been a better way to handle lady boyle instead of how the game did it ;; the nonlethal version of that mission still bothers me :(  
> anyhow, thank you for reading, and be sure to let me know what you thought of the new chapter <3


	18. the ebb and flow of tides in the flooded district

The Hound Pits Pub is rowdy and loud as its residents celebrate with too much alcohol. An old and slightly broken audiograph rolls out some rollicking music with a few skips and clicks, but otherwise, the music adds a certain festive air to it. Again, Cecelia works her magic and manages to miraculously obtain food for the celebration. Emily insists on staying up longer, but her yawns betray her. Also, Jessamine doesn’t want Emily to be around the men when they inevitably become inebriated. So, Emily and Callista retire to their rooms after drinking one last glass of sparkling cider.

Jessamine herself doesn’t drink either. She’s already had her glass of wine in her private chamber, and she doesn’t plan on drinking anymore than that. Perhaps it was a habit, but she always did cut herself off from alcohol and other substances fairly quickly. After some time reflecting on the past, she thinks that it’s a habit picked up from Corvo as well as a personal resolve after seeing the masses of hungover people the day after Fugue feasts. Being drunk made you vulnerable, so Corvo never drank more than a single glass of wine. It always took a fair bit of wheedling to get him to lower his guard enough to sit down and share a glass with her. 

Havelock is busily singing a sea shanty along with the audiograph while high spots of red dot Pendleton’s cheeks. Even Teague Martin is there with a smile curling around his cheeks, a glass of whiskey in his hands, and his Overseer coat thrown lazily over a chair. Jessamine, on the other hand, still keeps her coat tightly wrapped around her and her gloves on her hands. Havelock tries to pass her a glass of alcohol, but she pastes a demure smile on and says, “I don’t need to drink. Just being here is enough.”

“But, I insist!” he cries out as he claps her on the back. “You’ve done what no other empress has done before! You’ve done feats that even the Outsider couldn’t imagine!”

Well, that was true. The Outsider regularly told her how he expected to kill everyone, and part of her still wishes that she did. At least she’ll have the satisfaction of one-upping the Outsider. 

Jessamine inclines her head and waves her hand to signal no. Pendleton sways on his feet and tries to make his way over to her to insist as well, and Martin raises his glass to her in a small salute. She shakes her head again. Normally, they’re not so insistent like this, but anyone would be in a celebratory mood tonight. 

She finally relents when Samuel pushes a glass of alcohol to her. The liquid glows amber in the lantern light, and somehow, she’s reminded of the whale oil back in her private chamber. Samuel looks almost sad as he wordlessly bends his head down to her. She looks at his face and thinks that he  _ might _ look happier if she drank and celebrated more too. 

Reluctantly, she lifts up the glass much to the delight of every other man in the room save for Samuel. Havelock proclaims a loud and convoluted toast that Jessamine can’t be bothered to pay attention to, and when it’s done, she takes a small sip.

The taste is bitter as all alcohol tends to be, and her head spins slightly. This must be stronger alcohol than she’s used to, and it disorients her. Suddenly, she remembers the Outsider’s words with more clarity than she expects, and she stands up. The world spins even more, and it distorts the smiles on the Loyalists’ faces into something more gruesome. 

Jessamine Kaldwin opens her mouth to say something, but it’s too late. The world fade away, and she feels her body sink and fall into some unknown darkness. The last thing she hears is not the rollicking, boisterous music of the pub but the song of whales.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  


“So,” a voice says dryly. “You’re awake.”

Jessamine hazily opens her eyes and immediately shuts them again from the blinding pain that stabs through her skull. The brief and dull light from the lamp by her side was enough to send her head spinning, and she clenches her fists in a feeble attempt to ground herself. Then, with cold horror seeping into her mind, she realizes that she can  _ feel _ the rough fabric of the blanket covering her instead of the smooth, worn cotton of her gloves. Her Mark is open to see to anyone who spares a glance. 

Jessamine struggles to get up and winces. Someone else’s hands reach out to push her back down on the bed, and she’s too weak to put up much of a fight. Not only that, an infernal tune tinkles out of what she thinks is an Overseer’s music box. It’s a song that grinds into her ears and makes her feel even more dull and drowsy than she already is. Someone presses her lips, and her eyes open suddenly at the sensation. She tries to snarl at whoever it is, but she can focus only on a bent spoon with some liquid in it.

The same voice comments, “So. The Empress. Who would’ve thought. Open your mouth, it’s only medicine.”

Jessamine reluctantly swallows down the medicine and coughs after the medicine burns her throat. It seems to work, and her vision can focus enough to make out the room around her. The walls are worn, and when she turns her head, she can see two other cots lined up in a row next to hers. A man with the bent spoon in his hand taps his foot and raises an eyebrow when she looks at him. He holds an Overseer’s music box in his other hand that’s already wound up and tinkling that same song out. She can’t use magic or her Mark here while that cursed thing still plays. Her gaze drifts over to the other side to see a familiar face that makes her fury burn in her heart.

“ _ You, _ ” she spits out.

“Me,” Daud replies mildly.

Jessamine tries to get out of bed once more but she’s too weak and only ends up struggling vainly. 

The other man snaps, “ _ Easy, _ I didn’t yank the Tyvian poison from your body for nothing. Lie still or I’ll stick you with a needle.” He sets the bent spoon down on the bedside table as he grumbles, “Amateur’s work, that poison. It’s a nasty poison, kills you from the inside out by stopping your heart. Whoever tried to poison you didn’t give you enough to make it worthwhile though. Waste of money on perfectly good poison, if you ask me.”

Jessamine shuts her eyes and tries to remember Samuel’s expression. It was… Pained. Grieving. Miserable. Samuel must have known. Every single person in that pub must have known. How they tried to ply her with alcohol! How they urged her to drink! Fury roils low and steady, and she can feel it burning at the back of her tongue.

“Where am I,” Jessamine snaps out. “What have you done to me?”

Daud replies quietly, “You’re currently in the Rudshore Chamber of Commerce in the Flooded District. You’ve been unconscious for several days. Some of my Whalers found you floating in the Wrenhaven with a wooden box with all your gear lashed to your body. We dragged you back here and got you set up in our medical bay.”

Jessamine glances down at herself and her bare hands. She flexes her fingers experimentally, and they respond albeit slowly. There are bandages wrapped around her forearm near the crease of the joint, and when she glances over to the side-table, she sees bottles of medicine and syringes all on a scratched metal tray. Then, she notices the different clothes she has on. No coat, no blouse, no pants. Just a worn and ragged men’s shirt and trousers with a rough rope for a belt.

Daud follows her gaze and snorts, “Don’t worry, we got some of our female Whalers to change your wet clothes for you. Your clothes are dry and folded back into your box.”

Jessamine doesn’t understand it. This is the man that tried to  _ kill _ her. These are his men who worked with him for the job.  _ Why _ are they doing this? She looks up and narrows her gaze onto Daud who carefully keeps his face devoid of any emotion. In the lighting, he looks exactly like Sokolov’s portrait of him. The Parabola of Lost Seasons.

“You. You killed him,” Jessamine says slowly, quietly. “You killed my Royal Protector. You kidnapped my daughter. You worked with Hiram. You were going to kill me too.”

“To be honest,” Daud replies smoothly. “I thought you would die from the impact. It’s a long and hard fall from the royal gazebo.”

“I know. I fell. I almost did,” Jessamine says in that same tone, and cold fury shadows each and every word she enunciates.

“It seems like you were too stubborn to die then,” Daud says. He sighs out a soft exhale of breath before he adds, “Stubborn people have a tendency to cling to life longer than others.”

“And this stubborn woman will bring your head to the executioner’s table in Dunwall Tower,” Jessamine hisses out. Her anger is finally unrestrained, and she desperately wants to spring out of the bed and strangle Daud’s neck herself. All of this, from Corvo to Emily to what she’s become now, all of it seems to point to him. Everyone else involved in the coup paid their own price for it from the High Overseer to Hiram  _ except _ for Daud. The Knife of Dunwall.

She’s interrupted from her anger by the doctor’s shrill and piercing voice. “You’re not going anywhere,” he snaps. “Bed rest is all you’re going to have. You couldn’t even kill a rat in your condition.” He turns to Daud and starts on a little tirade as he says, “And  _ you. _ Daud, why do you  _ always  _ bring me people that get washed up in our district? First, the beggars. Then, the orphans. Now, you bring me a lost empress.”

“Terrible habit of mine,” Daud says flatly. He focuses on Jessamine again and says, “I’m here to tell you that I know a great deal, empress, and you should  _ listen. _ I recognize those marks on your hand. A gift from your friend, the one who talks to you in the dark. Talks to you when you visit his shrines.” He leans in closer and props his hands on his knees as he finishes darkly, “I’ve visited those shrines too.”

Jessamine laughs — a cold, blank thing that would send chills down anyone’s back — and replies tartly, “Congratulations, Knife of Dunwall. You’ve solved one of the most obvious secrets in my repertoire of secrets. What else do you care to tell me that I already know?”

“Feisty one, isn’t she?” the doctor slyly says.

Jessamine sharply replies, “I wasn’t the one asking you,  _ whaler.” _ She spits the last word out as if it were acid, and to be quite frank, Daud and his Whalers really are considered to be acid in the ranks of the nobility. Disgusting and foul and yet, a useful weapon in the right hands. A contract with enough money could buy you the right death of the right person. Jessamine despises how the nobility use such tools and hates how assassinations slip through the cracks of different defenses.

The doctor leans away from Jessamine and crosses his arms as he sneers, “And I wasn’t the one who wanted to save you in the first place,  _ empress.  _ If it wasn’t for Daud’s orders, I’d have you thrown out to the rats. Let the poison finish its work, I’d say.”

“Enough,” Daud interrupts. “And you are correct. I murdered your bodyguard. I kidnapped your daughter. I completed contracts from your Royal Spymaster. And I must admit, I thought you were dead for the first couple of months.”

“I bet he stabbed you in the back too,” Jessamine snorts. She can’t imagine Hiram working with Daud for long. The man adores his things to be pristine and perfectly ordered. Daud would be the exact opposite of everything Hiram ever kept close.

“Correct,” Daud says. “He started sweeping the Flooded District with his Warfare Overseers to kill me and my Whalers.” He gestures to the music box that still tinkles out Abbey hymns and says wryly, “I took some trinkets as a souvenir.”

“Lovely,” Jessamine grinds our. “And the point of you keeping  _ that _ is?”

“To keep you down,” he replies brusquely. “We can't have our  _ little friend’s  _ powers get you out of here before we have a talk. A negotiation, if you will.”

Jessamine actually snorts out loud at the last sentence, and she scoffs, “What makes you think that I’ll  _ ever _ negotiate with  _ you _ .” She flattens her voice in a cutting statement and removes all possibility of a question from it. She does not need nor want the answer. She knows that Daud will still respond though, and she grips the blanket with her fist out of sheer frustration.

“I…” Daud trails off and clears his throat. “You want my life. We can duel for you to take it, or I’ll leave Dunwall forever. But my Whalers. I don’t want the Overseers to hunt down every one.”

Jessamine acidly replies, “Would they not deserve it?”

For once, emotion shines in Daud’s bright eyes, and he quietly says, “They should not pay for the mistake that  _ I _ made.”

“Mistake? Does a knife make a mistake?” Jessamine retorts, but her voice is less sharp than her words imply. “You’ve cut down many lives in Dunwall. Explain to me why I should even consider your request.”

“I knew this was a mistake,” the doctor hisses out quietly before he stalks to the other side of the room and huffily sits down in a chair to fiddle with bottles of medicines and serums.

“Lord Peterson, Duchess Williams,” Jessamine lists off. “Sir Evans, Captain Harris, Lady Clarke. Must I list more? All of these people are dead.”

Daud leans back into his chair, adopting an almost lazy and cocky stance. “Peterson embezzled money from a government-funded project to improve the slums. Williams whipped her maids and cheated on her husband. Evans stole his nephew’s inheritance. Harris got his position from bribery. Clarke manipulated the stocks in the Dunwall oil district. All of them were corrupted. All of them are dead, and good riddance to them all.”

“Then what about the others?” Jessamine challenges. “Do you only kill the corrupt? Then why do you accept your contracts from corrupt people themselves?”

Daud examines his nails and lightly says, “They’re mostly dead. I go back and kill them afterwards. They don’t deserve to live, but they’ve got the money to pay me.”

Jessamine sighs and despises the way he’s so cocky, despises the way she feels helpless once more. Then, a chilling thought rises to the top of her mind. Was  _ she _ considered corrupt? Was that the reason why he accepted the contract to kill her? She looks up and silently stares at Daud until he’s forced to focus on her before asking, “Then what about me?”

Daud doesn’t answer.

“Ungrateful bitch,” the doctor speaks up from his table. He doesn’t bother to look up from his work as he continues, “Daud’s done more for the city than the Guard or the Overseers do. We’re the police that patrols the nights and cuts down the corrupt when they come up.  _ You _ never see it because you’re always in that blasted Tower of yours. He’s done  _ more  _ for you and your whelp than you could ever imagine — “

Daud clears his throat and shoots a dagger-like glare at the doctor. The doctor doesn’t look up again, but he subsides into a series of dissatisfied grunts.

Jessamine lets out a long and aching sigh as she reconsiders her time on the throne. The doctor’s right. She never spent enough time out of the Tower among her people. Her time was always spent dealing with the court, the politics, the economics and connections with other countries, the nobility. Never her people directly, never enough of that. If anything, her corruption would be her blasted complacency. Oh, she  _ tried, _ but it wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t good enough to see what Hiram was doing. Her silly, foolish complacency and trust. Even the glass of poison at the pub was from that root of trust, and she hates herself for it. Her anger at herself and her anger at what’s happened to her both mix into a seething, simmering mixture at the bottom of her heart, and she doesn’t know how to deal with it. 

She looks up at Daud and reluctantly says, “Leave Dunwall. Get me back to the Tower and help me get Emily back, and I will allow you to leave Dunwall. I will call off the patrols in the districts for the Whalers, and I will buy you enough time with Parliament for your escape. Is that enough?”

Surprise crosses Daud’s face and flickers in his eyes before he asks, “You don’t want to kill me?”

“I do,” Jessamine snaps. “If it wasn’t for you, my daughter and my Royal Protector would be safe and sound.” She hesitates before she bitterly says, “But my time off the throne forced me to truly see what is happening in my city, and as much as I hate to admit it, it… It has been a valuable experience.”

“And will you sign a contract agreeing to this?” Daud inquires. 

Figures. He is a businessman; contracts mean more to him than her simple words. Instead, Jessamine lifts her chin and firmly says, “I give you more: my word. I give you my word and my promise, and that means more to me than a simple piece of paper. Contracts can be broken, but words? Words can never be taken back.” She holds up her Marked hand as well and wryly says, “Besides, you already know about  _ this. _ One word to an Overseer and you can have me arrested, tortured, and burned at the stake.”

Daud’s expression relents and he stands up. The wooden chair creaks as he pushes it back, and he reaches into his pocket for an object that is unmistakable. Her Heart. Jessamine has to hold back the gasp that bubbles up in her throat as Daud leans over her to gently place it back in her Marked hand. The sound of whispers in that oh-so-familiar voice bursts into her mind with a welcome familiarity. Daud arches an eyebrow and lightly says, “A present from our little friend, huh? He always had a taste for the macabre. And also, Corvo’s still got a lot to say even after his death. Dedicated man, he is.” He leaves without another word, and Jessamine’s left alone to her own thoughts and the Heart’s shivering voice.

_ “Jessamine,” _ it immediately repeats when Daud leaves the room. 

“Hello, Heart,” she mouths back. She doesn’t want to let the doctor or the Whalers know anything more about it than she has to. It seems to suffice, and the Heart gently thrums in her hand. 

_ “Heart,” _ it echoes.  _ “His hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart.” _

Jessamine furrows her brow and thinks, “What do you mean?”

_ “Violence, blades, cold water and bodies,” _ the Heart responds.  _ “He finds the abandoned, the lonely, the broken, and brings them back to heal. These waters are greedy. They will never give back what they have taken, but the Whalers survive. They fight and they kill, but they are united. Whalers.” _ It takes a shuddering pause before continuing,  _ “The last thing the… Royal Protector felt was his blade. But there is something more to the assassin. A parabola of lost seasons. A dream. A child. A painting. A witch.” _

Jessamine doesn’t understand it, and when she tries to communicate her confusion, the Heart only increases its volume in Jessamine’s head. That doesn’t work at at all. No matter how much Jessamine listens, she doesn’t understand what the Heart is trying to say. Perhaps it would be easier if she asked Daud, but she doubts the assassin will even bother to answer. But she thinks that the doctor and the Heart are right. Daud must have been training people, people thrown aside and abandoned in the streets, and giving them a place to stay. 

She has to admit, placing their base in the Flooded District was a genius idea. The district used to be a prosperous place with the Chamber of Commerce and the Greaves Refinery and a rail line to connect the district together. After the dams broke, no one came back. No one would be there to interfere, especially after the quarantine at the start of the plague. No one would consider living there among the ebbs and flows of the cold waters. 

_ "They bring the bodies here. With rough hands. Rough hands and cages. Some of them are still breathing. The water is so cold and it is the last thing they feel,” _ the Heart whispers in response to her train of thought.  _ "Even the terrible floods were not enough to wash away the sorrows of Dunwall. When the sea wall broke, many strange things were drowned and forgotten." _

Jessamine sighs and tucks the Heart underneath the blankets and beneath the edges of her pillowcase. When she lies down, she takes care not to crush it. Another week passes, and during that entire week, she recuperates from the worst of the poison. A few Whalers step into the room, pretending to run errands, but the entire time, their wide eyes are trained on her. Usually, Jessamine doesn’t bother to do much more than raise her eyebrows at them. She asks for a map of Dunwall and with the worn stub of a pencil, she maps out different routes back to the pub and to the Tower. Some Whalers stop by to see her work and with rough voices and calloused fingers, they point out alternate routes and offer her tips on “how to murder those blasted traitors.” 

One young boy in particular stands out to her. He’s young, and his voice is high and clear as he asks her to take a detour in a certain area and murder every single Overseer on that street. Jessamine pastes on a smile and nods along, but she’s shaken inside. His innocent and round face doesn’t seem quite as innocent anymore. Every single Whaler despises the Overseers here, and although the music box no longer plays its tune, it still lingers on her bedside table as a reminder. All the Whalers that come by look at the music box with a wary eye and never turn their backs to her or the music box.

The next week, she stretches and relearns her body. Her reaction times are slower, and she still feels more sluggish than she used to. Daud himself keeps a watch on her as she tests her powers out again. Jessamine can hear his throaty laugh as she misjudges a blink and nearly slips off the edge of a building. She bends time and lands safely, but he’s still there, watching her with a hand on his blade and  _ laughing. _ Jessamine resents it and wishes that he were gone. 

But after all of that, she leaves. The waters of the Flooded District lap against concrete shores, and she reluctantly allows the Whalers to escort her out. She can’t see them, but she knows that they’re there. It’s a safety measure, and she knows the rationale behind it, but she still feels that telltale prickle at the back of her neck. She stands at the precipice of the last building of the condemned district and wraps her coat tightly around her. Her blade is back at her side, and the Heart is securely in her pocket. As she watches the cityscape, the Heart quietly says,  _ "They butchered the deep ones here, breathing in the rich stink of their enchanted flesh." _

“And we go to butcher others,” she replies in a soft voice. “They won’t see what’s coming.” The wind howls and she swears that it sounds like whales bellowing in the distance. Her Mark flares, and she can taste the distinct and sharp taste of magic across her tongue. The Void calls to her, and she answers back with a leap into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa i'm so sorry for the late chapter ;; i rewrote this chapter over and over again, debating on what to do. i was thinking about making the loyalists relatively good? but then i decided that they would have to stay traitors so that jessamine could have an excuse to be in the flooded district with daud and the whalers. then, i had to debate on whether or not i wanted daud to be more on the "good" or "bad" side of the morally grey spectrum + whether or not jessamine would kill him. in all honesty, i think that she would,,,, but i decided to stick with the low chaos theme and keep her from killing him since she hasn't killed any other "target" so far. 
> 
> let me know what you thought of the new chapter in the comments! thank you for reading! <3


	19. a tie to the close

Jessamine sucks in a deep breath as she stares at the chaos in the pub.

Cecelia is weeping, Callista’s face is pale and drawn, and Lydia and Wallace’s dead bodies lie on the floor. Their blood has long since clotted and dried on the wooden floorboards, and their bodies are rotting. Cecelia and Callista look gaunt and worn from near starvation, and Jessamine purses her lips, trying to restrain her fury at the scene she sees. The rations in the pub are gone, and the two women are barely hanging onto life. Emily, of course, is gone.

The Heart — Corvo — says quietly, _"They left in great haste. Scattering like insects, eager to bore into the nests you made for them. Callista tried to protect her, but they pulled the child from her arms. Oh, the curses she spat at them!"_

Samuel is also gone, and when Jessamine runs a sweep through the pub, she can’t find a trace of him. She finds Piero and Sokolov barricaded in Piero’s Workshop, and when she knocks on the door, she only hears violent swearing. She clears her throat and says loudly, “Calm down, it’s me. I’m back.”

“Shit,” a voice says behind the barricade. “Turn off the arc pylons, get the defenses down. Empress, don’t try to open the door.”

The door swings open to reveal Sokolov and Piero. Their eyes look haunted and the dark circles are prominent and black. They look like they’ve aged years in the two weeks that she’s been absent, and they explain everything to her. The Loyalists have insisted that Piero and Sokolov were the masterminds behind the entire conspiracy. Her disappearance has been chalked up to a murder at their hands.

Most importantly, Emily is trapped in the Lighthouse on Kingsparrow Island with _them._

Jessamine thought she knew fury when Daud’s blade cut through Corvo’s throat. She thought she knew wrath when she listened to Hiram’s audiograph recording. However, when she stares at Emily’s collage pasted on the wall, she has no words to describe the intensity of the emotion flowing through her heart and veins.

_"Emily banged her head in the confusion. They dragged her crying into the waiting boat,”_ the Heart hesitates, and then, it says achingly, _“She called your name."_

She feels numb after that. Her actions are stilted and robotic, but she helps Piero and Sokolov find and set up the blueprints for their new arc pylon. Although Sokolov and Piero chatter away, every single word filters through one ear and out the other. Her mind is swirling with too many thoughts and blinding, choking emotion that she can’t properly respond very well. She moves silently; that, at least, is something that she can still do well.

Callista finally stops her in the small clearing outside the pub by the waterfront. She toes aside some unconscious bodies of leftover guards and gingerly steps over them with some object clutched in her frail arms. Jessamine continues to stare out across the waterfront blankly and only responds when Callista taps her shoulder and clears her throat. When she glances at the girl, Callista thrusts a flare launcher to her. The girl stares back at her with defiant and strong eyes, and Jessamine searches her face for some trace of betrayal, some factor that she _always_ seems to overlook in people.

“For Samuel,” Callista says honestly. “You can use this to call him.”

Jessamine stares at her for a moment too long, and Callista sighs before she raises it up in the air and launches it herself. She takes a deep breath and says firmly, “I know you’re angry and lost, your Imperial Highness, but you need to put the mask on for one last mission.” She gestures to Jessamine’s Marked hand and says, “Go get them. We’ll be waiting back here for you.” Jessamine is speechless, and Callista reaches into her pocket for one last precious vial of Sokolov’s elixir. “Take this, you might need this,” she finishes. “I’m sorry we can’t offer more help, but we believe in you. Every one of us that’s left. The city believes you too.”

Jessamine steels her nerves and pulls out her metal mask. She turns it over in her hand and contemplates it for what seems to be eternity to her. Then, she latches it on her face with care as she says, “Thank you, Callista, truly.”

She cannot lose herself now.

In the distance, a small skiff cuts its way through the waters of the Wrenhaven, and Jessamine narrows the scope on her mask to watch Samuel make his way to the shore. When he pulls up the skiff, he immediately bows down, lower than he’s ever bowed before, and stammers, “I’m so, _so_ sorry, milady. I didn’t want to force you to drink the poison, truly, I didn’t, but they threatened to kill everyone else in the pub if I didn’t.” He hesitates before he confesses, “I didn’t add the complete amount they told me to. I only added a quarter of the packet, and I made sure you kept all of your gear with you. I was going to fish you out of the river after Havelock and the other _traitors_ got drunk, but you were gone!”

Words just spill out of him like an unending torrent, and Jessamine holds up a hand to stop him. He subsides, and Jessamine quietly replies, “Someone else found me and helped me. Thank you, Samuel, for trying. Please take me to Kingsparrow Island.”

He swallows audibly and gestures for Jessamine to step into the skiff. Jessamine gets in and looks back at Callista’s wan face. She musters up a brave smile for her, but her eyes say more than her mouth does. _“Such sadness_ ,” the Heart says in Jessamine’s mind as she watches Callista’s figure grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

The night is quiet, soothing, and dark, and it comforts her as the skiff moves steadily towards the island. Fog wraps around them, and Samuel guides the boat with skilled hands. Her mind races with too many thoughts. She turns around to look back at her city, the keystone of her empire, _her home_ , and finds that the fog has coiled so tightly around it to the point where she can only see the tops of the tallest buildings. Jessamine Kaldwin watches it quietly, steadily, but with growing distance and increasing fog, she cannot see it any longer.

_"You are like the rivermen,”_ the Heart sighs. _“They spread their nets wide, and pull up all manner of things. The sweet, the deadly, the poisonous, all together in one catch."_

She was sweet once. She was sweet and quiet and kind and complacent once. Now, she feels the poison and the ire and the danger all mounting in her heart, all ready to fire up her nerves with adrenaline and send her blade scattering across the throats of everyone she sees.

However, her thoughts are once more interrupted by Samuel. He coughs and says, “The lighthouse is coming up. You’ll have to be careful; those three have set up guard patrols all around it.”

“They’ll stop when they see me,” Jessamine says. “Either I show my face or I use my blade. Either one works.”

Samuel hesitates and asks, “Are you… Are you going to kill them, milady? You’ve never killed when you were working for them before.”

“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t,” Jessamine replies. She doesn’t know what she’ll do either. Her anger makes her fingers twitch for her blade handle, but the rational part of her — however quiet it may be right now — tells her that she cannot have blood on her reputation as Empress. Her empire knows that she’s alive now, and her mask can only afford her so much protection.

Without another word, Samuel carefully guides the skiff to a secluded and hidden spot on the island. He doesn’t say anything more, but he gives Jessamine a little salute and then another deep bow. Just before he poles away from the shore, he mouths, “I’m sorry.”

Jessamine watches him leave — a little bobbing skiff on the waters — before she turns back and melts into the shadows. It feels like a pressure off her chest when she uses her Mark to blink and leap through time. The magic of the Void flows around her, and now that she’s on an island, the sound of rushing water seems to fill her with even more energy. The mask barely glints under the guise of night, and the few guards she runs across don’t even know that she’s there until she’s too late. She doesn’t slit their throats. Not yet. Instead, she piles their bodies in a hidden place like she always does and moves steadily forward instead.

Kingsparrow Fort is well defended and guards patrol the entrances with extra care. No doubt it’s Havelock’s work. The man was trained and taught in the navy; of course he took care with steps like these. Martin must have had a touch in these plans as well since Overseers wander around the patrol lines with tinkling music boxes in their hands. Jessamine smiles a cold and vicious grin as she whispers out loud, “Not even a music box can stop me from reaching you.” She’s used to the muffled sensation of her magic when she creeps closer after so many hours of listening to the infernal song in the Flooded District. That melody is ingrained in her memory, and she knows how it feels, knows how to work around it.

She leaps up in the air once an Overseer is out of sight, and the Void’s magic takes her up and up to the structural supports hammered into the cliffs of the island. She sways slightly on her feet on the cables, but she puts one foot in front of the other with steadiness until she reaches a safer perch.

She pauses when a guard passes beneath her. However, she changes her mind and continues to sneak into the fort. She has no quarrel with the guards nor the Overseers. Not yet at least.

Jessamine blinks faster, harder, pushing her Mark to the brink. The scent of petrichor and roses intensifies as she presses onward, and the Void threatens to overwhelm and drain her. Her only response is to swallow down two entire vials of Porto’s spiritual remedy. The wind picks up until it howls, and with it, the Outsider’s voice whispers in the shadows.

“You stepped through a ruined and drowning world,” he says in a sibilant hiss that accompanied the wind. Jessamine pauses and scans the area before she leaps across a gap between two perches. She almost misses and slips off the slick metal. However, she grits her teeth and forces enough mana to carry her through and land her safely. The Outsider chuckles, “And Daud, the man who tried to kill _you_ … You could have had his head in your hands and you still walked away. You _fascinate_ me, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin. Moreso than Corvo, I may even say. More personal baggage, more rigid mannerisms, and still entirely unpredictable.”

Jessamine ignores him in favor of dropping down and choking out one guard in her way. After she dumps his body carelessly behind a large crate, she drops back into stealth and creeps along the edge of the building. Now, the Outsider’s voice is louder and more tangible as he says, “How does it feel now, knowing that your allies betrayed you? Strange how there’s always a little more innocence left to lose. How much more do you have left? How much will you take before you snap?” Jessamine thinks that at this rate, she’d snap the Outsider’s neck first. However, just when she reaches for another vial of Piero’s remedy, she feels a soft touch brushing along her shoulders and the sudden, thrilling rush of the Void settling in her veins. The scent of ozone layers itself over the scent of rain on her blinks, and she races ever onward.

Finally, she steps inside the Lighthouse itself, leaving no blood and only unconscious bodies behind. She’s actually quite delighted with herself when she checks her blade and her gloves. Only dirt and grime line her gloves: no rust-red stains or spatters. At this point, she reaches up to take off her mask and tucks it back into her pocket with care. She keeps her gloves on, but she holds a hand at the ready to grab her blade if she needs it. The few guards that she sees inside freeze when they see her face, and she puts a demure smile instead. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she says. “I’m here to pick up my daughter. You are henceforth relieved from your position.” She gestures for them to leave, and they continue to stare, eyes wide and jaws open. Jessamine wants to sigh, but instead, she taps her foot expectantly, waiting for her order to be heeded. The few guards file out with their shoulders uncomfortably straight and their mouths in thin lines. Jessamine watches them leave and hears footsteps behind her.

“So, you’ve finally come,” Teague Martin says in a bitter tone. “I told them that you would come back, but they were too busy reveling in their victory. I have to admit, I celebrated too. But I knew. I knew you would come back whether it be through your own sheer stubbornness or with the help of your _patron_ , empress.”

Jessamine slowly turns around and her hand drifts towards her blade handle as she turns. There he is, dressed in his Overseer’s coat. He looks worn and ragged despite his impeccable outfit and hair. The dark circles beneath his eyes have deepened, and he holds a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. Martin’s eyes follow her hand’s movement, and he shrugs, “Kill me if you want. I’ve got nothing to lose at this point, but you have everything to lose. The minute the empire knows you were the Masked Felon, the _moment_ they know who gave you the abilities to survive, they’ll have you executed. Burned at the stake.” A wry smile curls around his lips as he finishes, “I should know. I _am_ High Overseer after all.”

“Why,” Jessamine demands. “ _Why_ did you do this?”

He sighs, “We had the best of intentions when we started. We would find Emily and take back the throne from the Lord Regent for her. But once we started ordering deaths, blackmailing targets, using _you_ as our personal hunting dog…” He starts pacing and Jessamine tightens her grip on her blade handle. He waves his hand at her and continues, “I guess it just became a habit. It gets you drunk on power. It must be a hard thing to hold the keys to the empire in your hands, empress. How did you live like that, day after day, knowing that you could make the empire do anything you wanted to with the power of the crown and the throne in your hands?”

He stops and stares directly at her, and a strange kind of mirth dances in his eyes. “I knew we were going too far, but by that point, I didn’t care. They didn’t know what kind of trouble they were getting themselves into, but I knew it every step of the way. Once you take the lower road, once you start dabbing in crime, you feel it and you never forget it.”

Jessamine remembers the Heart said about Teague Martin, and she stiffens as she says rigidly, “Then I suppose you returned back to your criminal comforts. Ironic of an Overseer, wouldn’t you say?”

“Religion’s nothing more than another set of lies, empress,” he tosses back. “And there’s no real difference between a criminal and an Overseer. It’s just the society that thinks that the Overseers are in the right rather than the wrong, and I _always_ like being on the right side than not.”

He pauses and points up at the ceiling. “Pendleton’s arguing with Havelock on how to rule the empire now. Havelock poured us all a glass for this meeting. You should know how this is going to play out by now.”

“And are you going to drink it? Why did you come down here in the first place?” Jessamine inquires.

Martin laughs, “Those two think I’m going to the bathroom. I came down because something felt off, and I took the whiskey with me as a precaution. Havelock and Pendleton are still up there. Do as you wish, empress. That’s what you’ve always done after all.” He raises the glass to Jessamine as a mock toast before he finishes, “But, I’m not going to give you the privilege of ending me, dear empress. I was born into nothing, and it’s nothing I’ll return to.” With that, he lifts the glass up and swallows down the whiskey in a single gulp before Jessamine can do anything. He smiles his last smile before his body and face spasms and falls on the floor. Jessamine holds her breath as he goes through his death throes. Then, the last spark of cheerless mirth drain from his eyes until they’re just flat like glass, empty and lifeless.

She steps over his body with chills down her back, and she draws her blade and holds it steady. With careful and cautious steps, she ascends the stairs to the very top of the lighthouse. Sure enough, Pendleton and Havelock are still arguing. Their voices are low and hushed as if they were restraining themselves from yelling at each other, but it’s clear from their expressions that they disagree. Havelock paces as he’s wont to do, and Jessamine waits until he paces too close to the door before she uses her Mark to blink behind him. She presses the sharp edge of her blade tightly to his neck and says quietly, “Hello, Havelock. Hello, Pendleton. I would say that it’s nice to see you again, but then I would be lying and I’m not in the mood to lie. Although, I believe you two have had your own fair share of lies, no?”

Pendleton tries to stumble back while he’s still sitting, and he ends up falling over. The chair clatters to the ground, and he scrambles back until his back hits the wall. He blubbers incoherently, sounds and mushed words pouring from his tongue. Jessamine has no patience and chooses to press her sword even closer until she knows for certain that blood drips from Havelock’s neck. He strains against her, but Jessamine summons up the power of the Void from her Marked hand to keep him still and restrained. She knows that he must feel the thrumming terror and the haunting beauty of whalesong at this range and with this intensity.

“We meant well,” Havelock tries to choke out.

Jessamine interrupts him harshly by snapping back, “Save it. I already heard it from Martin. Good intentions, but power corrupts. And you were always bitter, Havelock. I’ve heard it from your own words and recordings. You’re a man with bloodlust. There will be no redemption for you.” With that, she slits his throat with her blade.

She lets his body drop to the ground with a wet thump and advances on Pendleton. He continues to blubber, but as Jessamine gets closer, he starts to speak, eyes wide and maniacal. “What could I offer you anyway? Money? You’re an empress, and the truth is, I’m broke. Men? Everyone knows you were fucking the Royal Protector.” He wheezes out a shaky laugh before he continues, “Oh, don’t give me that look, _empress._ Everyone knows that you were just Corvo’s little bitch. There’s more peasants out on the street to open your thighs for. Alright then. Go ahead and kill me. Cousin Celia was always going to inherit anyways. Martin was right all along. You’d come back. You did.”

Jessamine narrows her eyes and with a sharp thrust of her blade, she snuffs out Pendleton’s life. Her gloves are spattered with blood now, but the dark blue of her coat makes it hard to even see the stains. She glances around the room and spots a journal. After she tosses aside the bodies and covers them up, she examines the journal. It’s nothing more than Havelock’s treacherous ramblings, and she throws aside the journal with disgust. Then, in the absolute silence, she can hear the pounding of a door and a muffled cry.

Emily.

She glances at the table with desperation, searching for something. In the flickering light, she spots a gleam of metal. When she brushes aside papers, she finds a key. Jessamine snatches it up and with pounding footsteps, she searches for the source of the sound. The Heart helps her find the right door and whispers in her ear, but Jessamine’s entirely focused on the door. She scrabbles to get the key properly in the lock and loses her grip on the slick key a few times. However, the door finally clicks open and she sees Emily, eyes huge and terrified and face drawn tight with fear and worry. That fear melts away when her eyes lock onto Jessamine’s, and with a cry, she throws herself into Jessamine’s waiting arms.

Jessamine shuts her eyes tightly and begins to weep with her daughter safely in her arms. Her bloodied blade drops to the floor and clatters against the floorboards, and the taste of ozone leaves her tongue in favor of the salt of her tears.

Emily is safe.

Jessamine is safe as well.

This is the end, the tie to the close.

 

 

* * *

  


 

“I don’t play favorites,” the Outsider says lightly.

The early morning is rough and grey, just as grey as Dunwall always is. Fog rises to swathe the city in a cloak, and two men stand along the concrete shores of Dunwall’s pier. It’s so early that even the dockworkers aren’t out to start their daily work again. The only living things watching the two figures outlined against the grey fog and skies are rats that skitter and scurry in the alleys and shadows of buildings that loom tall and high over the rest of the city.

Daud laughs, a torn, ragged thing that bubbles up from the back of his throat. He laughs and laughs before his keen eyes meet oil-slick eyes and says, “Laughable, Outsider, absolutely laughable. You gave her more than you’ve ever given anyone in this entire damn empire.”

“And how would you know that?” the Outsider returns. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking at any given movement, but he leans in closer, examining every inch of Daud’s face. Daud stands his ground and eyes him back. The early morning light offers just enough shadow to make it seem like the Outsider is human just like him. It’s not light enough to see how sallow and bone-white his skin is, and it’s too shadowy to see how his eyes are completely black or how his bones jut out too much if you don’t look too long.

“You gave her the heart of her dead lover, gave her a Mark, visited her more than you visit any of us, help her more than you’ve helped others,” Daud answers. “Don’t try to tell me that you don’t have favorites again.”

“What, are you jealous?” the whale god asks, his tone lilting and deceptively cheerful.

Daud shakes his head and turns back to watch the sun slowly rise over the horizon. The sounds of seagulls crying rings through the air and the sound of water lapping against the concrete shore is soft and relaxing. The entirety of Dunwall is nearly asleep, still in their beds, with their minds at ease. They know that their empress and their princess are safely ensconced in their Tower once more. The world seems to be more normal, more peaceful, more safe. Daud knows more. Daud knows that a witch — an almost-princess herself — could have taken all of that away. Daud also knows that he was spared. Mercy in whatever form he could get.

“Why would I be jealous?” Daud snorts. “Only a madman would want you constantly talking to them. You must bother her dreams so much. Don’t try to lie. Corvo — that Heart — already told me.”

I do bother her,” the Outsider chuckles. “That’s part of the fun.” His expression sobers and he says, “You passed through Dunwall’s underworld like a shadow and walked out unscathed. You outwitted one of the greatest witches in a generation, saved the city and the empire, and still, no one will ever know. You’ve been hanging in the balance, and you’ve been more careful than you’ve ever been. The contract of the empress truly was different in ways that I never expected.”

“You could say that,” Daud answers reluctantly. Half of him doesn’t know why he did what he did. It started with guilt and sheer curiosity that later evolved to necessity once the Overseers started hunting down his Whalers.

The Outsider reaches out his long-fingered hands to turn Daud to face him. With a somber face, he says, “There are times when I delight in seeing lives end and chaos spread, but the path you've taken here honors your skills. I give my Mark sparingly, Daud. I've seen it used for power, for love, for money. For strange obsessions that drove the wearer mad. But very, very rarely, for redemption.”

Daud sighs and turns away to stare at the seas again. He sees a ship on the distant horizon, steadily coming towards the shore. Redemption is something that he doesn’t want to admit, but it is something that he knows is true. He focuses on the ship instead. That is his way out of the city. The empress lifted the quarantine after Sokolov and Piero came up with a new remedy. Weepers no longer wander the streets. His Whalers are scattered to the wind. Some plan to come with him to Serkonos while some choose to try their fates in other places like Morley or Tyvia. Others stay in Gristol, in Dunwall where there’s a ray of hope now.

But for now, Daud is there at the edge of the concrete, waiting for the start of a new dawn, a new day, a new life.

The rest of Dunwall wait with him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew there's the end to another fic! this one was surprising since i never rly intended on extending the one chapter that i had up. this was a chapter that i also spent a lot of time thinking about + rewriting.  
> i was trying to go for low chaos, but i think in the end, she'd be too angry and furious to even consider sparing them. martin's definitely the kind of character to go out on his own terms though.  
> another thing i debated on was how big of a role the outsider would play in all of this? i know that he wouldn't interfere, but i just,,, rly like the thought of having that extra voice in the back of your mind and that extra presence following you with the sound of whalesong in your ears the entire time. the same goes for daud in the last "epilogue" bit. the outsider wouldn't do it, but i enjoy the picture of that scene and that conversation in my head too much to not write it haha ;u;
> 
> anyhow, thank you so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! i truly appreciate it and i'm grateful that you took the time to read my fic <3 <3 take care, dear readers!


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